Aaron & Emily, Meet Luke & Lorelai
by sienna27
Summary: Universe F: Crossover w/Gilmore Girls - TV Show Episode Title Challenge - Prompt Set #2 - Title Challenge: Emily in Wonderland - Case Fic: Hotch and Emily are staying at the Dragonfly while investigating a series of mutilations out of town. NOTE: Rating is for "Adult Content" in later chapters.
1. Wrong Turn

**Author's Note:** Another challenge story. You can read this completely as a stand alone one shot.

But if you're coming at it from CM, this is an offshoot of Universe A, aka the main Girl 'verse. It takes place in late Season 3. There's nothing to say they didn't take this trip some random day after Hotch got divorced and before he got blown up.

* * *

**Prompt Set #2**

Show: Gilmore Girls

Title Challenge: Emily in Wonderland

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**Wrong Turn  
**

Emily sighed as she turned to watch the scenery go past the side window.

Nothing but trees . . . they were lost.

They'd actually been lost for well over an hour, but Hotch hadn't asked for directions yet. He wasn't usually stubborn about that. He wasn't a typical guy. And given that they did travel to so many new places all the time, it would be completely ridiculous to expect that he'd ALWAYS be able to find his way around easily.

But today . . . for some inexplicable reason . . . he hadn't pulled over even after it was apparent that they were just going around in circles.

And now she was thirsty and hungry, AND she had to go to the bathroom. She'd always that thought it was just cruel that you could be both thirsty _and _have to pee at the same time. Of course she knew that they were completely unrelated bodily functions, but still, it just seemed like karmicly, one should cancel the other out.

And she so badly just wanted to ask Hotch to stop and take a five minute break so she could pee and break into a couple of vending machines, but he was starting to that little twitchy thing over his eye. And on top of everything else, she didn't want to start a fight.

But she really . . . she fidgeted nervously . . . REALLY had to pee!

Damn it.

Okay . . . she took a breath . . . she'd give it ten more minutes. Then she'd risk the fight.

Better that than risking an embarrassing accident.

Hotch winced slightly as he noticed Emily squirming in her seat.

Okay . . . he sighed to himself . . . they were going to have to stop. He'd been putting it off, but clearly . . . if she was ACTIVELY squirming . . . she couldn't wait much longer to use the bathroom. Really he was kind of amazed that she hadn't said anything yet! That wasn't like her. But since she'd tossed that useless map onto the floor a few minutes ago, she'd just been staring out the window.

Grrr! God damn construction! They just HAD to hit that detour on the Interstate. Otherwise at this point in their day, things would have been going just fine.

Or at least going much more smoothly.

The two of them had flown up commercial that morning into TF Green for a consult in a small town in eastern Connecticut. The sheriff that they were meeting with had sent the BAU a letter asking if he could get their opinion on an unusually high number of animal remains that had been found around town, one strange suicide, and a series of small fires that had been set.

All of these events had occurred over the span of the last eight months. And the sheriff didn't know if it was just a series of terrible coincidences . . . teenagers acting out perhaps . . . or if maybe he had the makings of a real psychopath on his hands.

Unfortunately Hotch hadn't been able to make a conclusion off the mutilation photos and the autopsy report of the suicide. But he'd decided that the potential risk for a serial killer in the making . . . especially one who getting this busy in such a short period of time . . . was high enough to warrant a quick day trip up north. But he didn't want to drag the whole team along on just a brief consult.

Still though, they rarely went anywhere alone, so he'd decided to take Emily up with him. It should have been an easy day trip.

And it _would_ have been an easy day trip, if not for the damn detour.

He knew that he should have stopped for directions forty-five minutes ago, but it was just the principle of it. The sign CLEARLY said which way to go to get back around to the Interstate. And he wasn't an idiot, so he should have been able to follow the sign. And once he'd realized that perhaps he really was an idiot . . . because obviously he HADN'T been able to follow the damn sign . . . well, at that point he didn't much want to admit the truth of his idiocy to anyone else.

And by 'anyone else' he was referring to, of course, Emily.

But as he saw her shifting again, he knew that it was past time for him to suck it up. It was just mean to make her wait for no other reason than his own stubbornness.

So he cleared his throat.

"Let me know the next time you see a sign for a town." His eyes snapped over to hers, "we'll stop so that you can go to the bathroom."

Emily shot Hotch a grateful smile, "thanks."

Of course she also knew that meant that they were stopping to ask for directions, but they were doing so SOLELY under the guise of attending to her needs. Her lips twitched slightly . . . that was fine. She had no desire to give him crap about this little wrong turn. It wasn't his fault that they had to get off the right road.

He had just waited a little longer than he should have before admitting that he couldn't get back _on_ the right road, that's all.

But it actually was a beautiful day for a ride through New England. And perhaps if she'd had a drink . . . and had thought to stop and go to the bathroom at the airport . . . then she might actually have been enjoying the spring weather. It was cooler up here than back home. Probably high 60s, but it was sunny and the trees all had those new little green buds on them.

She bit her lip . . . it _was_ really pretty out.

So she decided that after they'd stopped, she attended to her business and hopefully got some water . . . or even better, coffee(!) . . . she'd just try to make the best of it. She and Hotch were generally quite companionable on car trips. They'd certainly taken enough of them over the past year and a half. And a depressing review of a cold storage of animal carcasses notwithstanding, this could be a "nice day" if she just made the effort.

And that's when she suddenly saw the sign.

"Oh!" she flapped her hand towards the window, "there's a town! Stars Hollow. Next exit right up ahead."

Nodding that he saw it too, Hotch hit his directional.

"Got it," he murmured as he checked over his shoulder to change lanes. A few seconds later he made the turn off the exit. And once they were off the byway that they'd been circling for the last hour, they traveled through some fairly dense trees for about a mile, before hitting a speed limit drop down to 25 mph. And then finally they broke out into what Hotch assumed was the main street of this little hollow.

As they approached what was clearly the town square, he heard Emily exclaim from beside him.

"Oh Hotch, this place is ADORABLE! Look," she pointed, "they even have a gazebo!"

His eyes crinkled slightly as he glanced across the front seat to see her smiling out the window.

Emily could always find something good even in a bad situation. That's why he'd started partnering up with her more often. She was always the glass half full one.

And sometimes . . . more times than he'd care to admit . . . he needed somebody to actually put something in the glass for him. And now that she'd found something that had caught her eye, she'd definitely perked up.

She patted his arm excitedly.

"Oh, pull over there. I see a coffee shop."

Hotch slowed and then pulled into a parking spot on the corner of the street. After he'd turned off the engine, he squinted as he looked out the windshield.

"It says Williams Hardware on the front."

Emily tipped her head the other way. "Yeah . . . but," she frowned, "the little coffee cup sign is new, and the hardware store one looks old, so I say coffee shop."

With a fairly indifferent shrug, Hotch undid his seatbelt, "if you say so."

Either way, as long as they were an establishment open to the public, she'd be able to pee and he could ask somewhere the highway was.

Emily bobbed her head as she slid off her own belt.

"I do say so," she said as she opened her door, "but as long as they have a bathroom, I don't care if they're selling leather whips and fuzzy handcuffs in there."

They got out of the car and Hotch made a face as he looked at her over the roof.

"Would you really want to use the bathroom in a store like _that_?"

Getting an extremely unpleasant visual in her head of some freaky doings in a public bathroom, Emily shuddered as she walked over to join him on the sidewalk.

"Eww, no I guess not." Then she stood on her tiptoes to peer in the windows of the hardware store/coffee shop.

"But this does appear to be a dining establishment, so I don't think I have to worry about anything icky in the ladies room."

Hotch's mouth quivered as they continued down the sidewalk . . . Emily Prentiss was the only FBI agent that he knew who regularly used "eww" and "icky" in conversation.

Upon reaching the entrance to the little diner, Hotch pulled open the door and stepped back so that Emily could enter.

As he followed her inside, he noticed three things right off. First that it was definitely a diner, second, that it was doing pretty decent business for the post breakfast/pre-lunch hour, and third . . . his brow inched up . . . that the entire room had gone silent when they walked in.

Everybody was staring at them . . . so he stared back. And as expected . . . nobody held his gaze for long . . . they all quickly looked away.

Though they still kept sneaking glances. That was fine though. They could be curious, he just didn't like to be gawked at.

He and Emily then almost simultaneously slipped off their sunglasses, tucking them into the front pockets of their black suit jackets. And that was the fourth thing he noticed . . . they were the only ones wearing black.

Or suits.

Emily led them across the small room and over to the counter being wiped down by a scruffy looking guy in a baseball cap.

He was the only one in the place that was completely ignoring them.

After a moment of him continuing to pretend like they weren't standing there, Emily cleared her throat.

"Uh, excuse me. Can . . ."

He cut her off without even looking up. "What can I get for you?"

Slightly taken aback at the rough tone, Emily blinked. She would have thought that in a little town that looked like this one, that people would be friendlier.

But before she could open her mouth again, an attractive woman sitting on the stool to her right, piped up.

"Don't mind him. He's always grumpy," she said cheerfully. Then she gave Emily a big smile as she put her hand out.

"Hi, I'm Lorelai. I assume you guys are lost? Because you definitely don't look like you're from anywhere around here."

Emily blinked again as she looked down at the outstretched hand.

Okay, she wasn't expecting anyone to be quite that _friendly_ either. Then she realized that she was being rude, the woman was being nice to her. So she gave her a pleasant smile in return as she put out her own hand.

"Uh, hi, yes actually we are lost. We need to get back on the Interstate." Then . . . figuring that this woman would probably be able to help her out with her other problem . . . she gave her a sheepish smile.

"And I really need to go to the bathroom."

The Lorelai woman smiled at her again before turning to point down the hall.

"Sure hon, right through there."

The guy behind the counter immediately piped up with an indignant, "Lorelai! That bathroom isn't for the public."

And then Lorelai rolled her eyes.

"Luke. The woman needs to pee. Get over it." She turned back to Emily with a reassuring smile as she tipped her head, "ignore him, just go on back."

Emily looked back and forth between the only two people that had spoken to them. Then she decided that regardless of who was standing behind the counter, body language clearly said that the woman was in charge here.

So she nodded.

"Thanks." Then she turned to Hotch, who had been silent during that whole exchange. She gave him her best sad face.

"I know that we're already running late but can we _please_ get something to eat?" She pouted slightly, "I'm really hungry. We had to get up so early I haven't eaten anything since five, and you know . . ."

Hotch cut her off with a roll of his eyes.

"I know. Believe me, I know."

Emily was _always_ hungry. And she'd somehow forgotten her little snacks which she usually carried in her bag. And he knew this because she'd mentioned it twice at the airport and three times in the car.

Still though, they were in a hurry and needed to get back on the road. But then he looked at her for a second, wondering if she knew how hard it was for him to say no to that face. Then he snorted to himself.

Of course she does, that's why she's making it. But, he was a little hungry himself.

"Fine," he sighed, "we can get something to eat," then he shot her a glare, "but it has to be quick."

Before Emily could respond, Lorelai exclaimed.

"WOW! Best . . scowl . . . ever! I thought Luke was the hands down reigning champ of the Eastern seaboard but clearly there is a new king." She turned to the guy behind the counter, "hand over your crown bub."

Both Emily and Hotch just stared at her in astonishment for a moment before Emily lost it. She snorted . . . and then she laughed out loud. And when turned to see Hotch giving her a dirty look, she half chuckled, half shrugged.

"I'm sorry, but that was funny!"

This Lorelai woman was the only person besides Emily herself, who had ever openly commented on Hotch's infamous glare, to Hotch himself. Emily was definitely starting to like her.

Then she saw the guy she'd called Luke, roll his eyes as he dropped down two menus on the counter in front of them. He tipped his head over to the brunette.

"Just ignore her. She's out on a weekend pass from the institution."

Hotch looked back and forth between the man and woman, before finally shaking his head . . . he wasn't getting involved in this. He shot Emily a look.

"Prentiss, go find the bathroom. While you're gone, I will order you something, then we will eat, we will get directions and we will leave. We still have a long day ahead of us and we can't hang around here too long."

And with that, he dropped down on the stool and picked up the menu.

Emily's lips twitched at Hotch's 'attempting to keep control of the situation' speech. Then she noticed Lorelai frowning at him before she turned to stage whisper to Emily.

"He's kind of bossy."

Seeing the indignant look that Hotch shot Lorelai, Emily had to bit her lip to keep from laughing again. But then she quickly schooled her features.

Even if this woman was amusing, Emily's loyalties were to Hotch first and always.

"Uh, yeah," she smiled at Lorelai, "that's because he's my boss. Kind of comes with the title. Now if you'll please excuse me, I'm going to go see if I can find that bathroom."

Hotch watched Emily take a few steps before disappearing behind the curtain in the corner. That's when he flipped the menu.

He was trying to decide what to order for her. They might not have another chance to eat later, so it needed to be something substantial enough that it would tide her over until dinner.

"Get her the burger."

When Lorelai's voice suddenly cut into his thoughts, Hotch's head snapped up in surprise.

"Excuse me?"

Who _was_ this woman? Well, he knew that her name was Lorelai, but seriously who WAS this woman? He'd heard less from Emily in the last hour than he had from 'Lorelai' in the last two minutes.

And then she leaned over to point at something on his menu.

"Get her the cheeseburger and fries," she nodded and tapped the plastic, "it's really good."

Hotch looked back at the menu, then down at his watch.

It was a little after eleven, he supposed that was late enough for a burger. Especially given that she'd already been up for seven hours. He looked up to see the guy . . . what was his name . . . Luke, holding a pen and a pad of paper.

Oh . . . light dawned . . . Luke! Of Luke's diner. He must be the owner. Well, that explained the attitude, he was the boss.

He could be as cranky as he wanted to be. And to that end, Hotch saw him raise an annoyed eyebrow at him.

"You decide yet?"

Hotch raised his own eyebrow in response to the attitude, before looking down at the menu.

"Uh yeah, the cheeseburger and fries, a grilled cheese and two coffees please."

"Got it," Luke grunted as he scribbled down the order. Then he yelled their orders over his shoulder to some guy named Caesar before turning around to take down two huge coffee mugs.

As he started to pour, Lorelai turned to Hotch again.

"Luke makes the best coffee this side of Seattle," she looked up at Luke with a little smile, "right hon?"

Hotch noticed Luke rolled his eyes again, but this time his mouth twitched slightly. So Hotch looked down, and that's when he noticed the diamond ring and gold band on Lorelai's finger. His eyes snapped over to the hand holding the coffee pot.

A matching gold band.

His lip quirked up . . . huh. Married. Even though he read behavior for a living, he definitely would _not_ have called that one. Though it did explain why she had the run of the place.

She was _Mrs._ Luke's Diner.

Hotch reached down to pick up the cup Luke had just filled, blowing slightly on the hot liquid before taking a sip. Then he licked his lips.

_Wow! That WAS really good coffee._

Just then Emily came back out and he tipped his head as she sat down next to him. When he saw her face light up at the giant mug, his eyes crinkled slightly.

It took very little to make her happy.

"Oh! Coffee!" She turned to gave him a grin, "thanks."

She'd forgotten to ask him to order her some, but he knew what she liked. Though as she picked up her cup, Hotch shot her a look.

"It's hot. Be careful."

"'Kay," she responded with a little smile. So then she took a little sip, rather than the gulp which Hotch had known she was about to take.

As the rich flavor flooded her taste buds, she exclaimed.

"Wow! This is _really_ good coffee!"

Hotch's mouth twitched slightly at Emily's echoing of his own thoughts. And then he saw Lorelai nodding firmly as she took a sip from her cup.

"Yep," she placed the mug back on the counter, "my man does make a fine cup o'joe."

Emily snapped her gaze over to Hotch to see him mouthing the word, 'married,' as he tipped his head down to Lorelai's hand.

Her eyes widened when she saw the ring. Then she looked up at the taciturn man behind the cash register.

Talk about opposites attracting.

When she looked back over at Hotch, Emily's brow wrinkled to see him scowling at his phone.

"What's the matter?" She asked softly.

With a sigh, Hotch slipped his cell back into his pocket.

"Text message from JJ." He gave a pointed nod at their surroundings, "we can discuss it in the car."

This really wasn't the right locale to go over the cannibalistic murder case out in Oregon that Strauss had just asked them to monitor.

"K," Emily said before took another sip of coffee. As she put her mug back on the counter she asked, "should we try calling the sheriff again?"

After a quick check of his watch, Hotch shook his head.

"No, it's all right. I'd told him that we'd be there _by_ one. There were supposed to be thunderstorms this morning in Virginia so I'd allotted for a flight delay." He rolled his eyes, "we had a driving delay instead."

"It's okay," Emily gave him a little smile, "it's a nice day for a drive."

For her attempt at making him feel better, Hotch flashed Emily a dimple in gratitude . . . he knew she'd been miserable for the past hour. And he was just about to turn and ask Luke for directions, when Emily beat him to the punch as she turned to Lorelai.

Who . . . Hotch realized then . . . probably would be the better choice anyway. She might be a little bit 'friendlier' than he was used to, but she certainly had been quite helpful. Plus Emily seemed to like her, and she was a good judge of character.

Emily turned to the pretty brunette next to her.

"Excuse me Lorelai, could you tell us how to get back to the Interstate?"

"Of course," Lorelai nodded before grinning, "but would you answer one question for me first?"

Surprised at the request, Emily snapped her jaw shut.

"Uh, yeah, I guess. Sure. What's the question?"

Lorelai leaned forward conspiratorially. "What do you people _do_ for a living? Because you're dressed like either undertakers or backup singers for an Osmonds family reunion."

Emily's lips twitched as she glanced over at Hotch. He just rolled his eyes and looked back to his coffee.

So she wasn't the only one who had noticed that they'd ended up in matching outfits today. They had on nearly identical black suits and his tie perfectly coordinated with her royal blue shirt. Then of course there was the black hair and the brown eyes.

But they couldn't do anything about that.

Emily slipped her hand into her pocket and pulled out her badge, discreetly flipping it open for her new acquaintance.

"We're FBI agents. We're in Connecticut on business and got a little turned around at a construction detour."

Lorelai's eyes widened in excitement as she looked down at the shield.

"You're FBI agents! Cool beans!" she pulled out her phone "hold on, I have to tell my daughter."

Emily pursed her lips in amusement as Lorelai started texting, simultaneous to passing along quite detailed directions back to the Interstate. As she talked, Hotch scribbled the major landmarks down on a napkin that he then slipped into his pocket. By the time Lorelai was done talking, her phone was ringing. And to Emily's great amusement the ring tone was _Who Can it Be Now_ by Men at Work.

Just then, Luke dropped their plates down in front of them and jabbed his thumb at the NO CELL PHONES sign.

"TAKE IT OUTSIDE!" He yelled.

Emily furrowed her brow at him before looking over at the man's wife. But she just waved her hand dismissively as she flipped open her phone. "Hey snookums . . . no really, I saw the badge." With a grin, she looked over at Emily who was popping a fry into her mouth.

"My daughter wants to know if you know Mulder and Scully."

"No," Emily chuckled, "sorry. Tell her I haven't had the pleasure." Lorelai laughingly passed along her answer before turning away to continue her conversation a bit more quietly.

"Who are Mulder and Scully?" Hotch asked with a poke to Emily's arm. And she gave him an indulgent smile as she picked up her burger, "I'll tell you in the car."

Hotch's brow furrowed slightly before he turned back to his sandwich . . . did he know those people? The names sounded familiar. Well, whatever. And with a shake of his head, he went back to his early lunch.

The food was as good as the coffee. Then he glanced over to Emily who was scarfing down her burger. His eyes crinkled slightly.

"Good?" He asked while gesturing towards her plate.

Still chewing, she nodded and then swallowed. "Yeah, really good. Nice choice." Hotch looked over her shoulder at Lorelai, "actually it was her suggestion so thank her."

Lorelai . . . having just snapped her phone shut . . . realized what they were talking about and smiled.

"The burger is _my_ favorite," she looked down to Emily's shoes, "and I figured anyone who wore black leather boots like _that_, was bound to have good taste in other areas as well."

Emily looked down at her boots and then looked back up at Lorelai with a grin. "You suggested a burger for me because of my shoes?"

At Lorelai's serious nod, Emily picked up her napkin and wiped her fingers off. Then she put her hand out with a bright smile.

"Emily Prentiss. I don't think I introduced myself earlier."

In fact she knew that she hadn't. She generally sidestepped introductions unless they were formally identifying themselves, which they had not wanted to do. Then she tipped her head over to Hotch.

"And this is my boss, Aaron Hotchner."

Looking up in a slightly disinterested fashion, Hotch gave Lorelai a polite nod before he turned back to his meal.

Lorelai's lips twitched.

"Oh, we're officially introducing Grumpy 1 and Grumpy 2?" She pointed over to Luke who was busing one of the tables down back. "That's my husband Luke Danes. He owns the diner, and I own one of the local inns."

Emily swallowed her bite as she looked over with interest, "oh that's so cool." Then she frowned, "it's too bad that we're only on a day trip. It would be nice to stay somewhere, well, nice."

Most places with the best government rates weren't exactly five start establishments.

Lorelai started digging into her purse. "Well just in case you do need to stay over, here," she put one of her cards on the counter, "the directions from the Interstate are on the back." She winked, "and we do have a government rate."

Emily gave her a soft smile as she slipped the card into her pocket, "thanks."

This lady was being really nice to her. Maybe she could . . .

The thought faded as she turned towards Hotch and bit her lip.

_'Please,'_ was the unspoken request.

Having also taken note of Lorelai's kindness to them, Hotch . . . after staring at Emily for a second . . . gave her a barely perceptible nod.

_Go for it._

Her eyes crinkled at him before she turned to pull out one of her own cards. She passed it back to Lorelai.

"If you're ever in Washington, give me a call and I'll give you a tour of the FBI Academy."

Lorelai shot her a brilliant smile.

"My daughter would LOVE that! She's at the Kennedy School getting her Masters in Public Administration." Lorelai continued while tucking the card into her wallet, "she got a job covering the presidential campaign three days after graduating from Yale. And after a year of doing that, she was really interested in government and public service."

Impressed . . . and surprised, Emily looked over wide eyed.

"Wow, that's really great! You must so proud of her. And that's so funny actually because Hotch went to Harvard and I went to Yale."

What were the odds there?

Lorelai's eyes crinkled, "that is funny." Then she gave a proud smile, "my little girl always wanted to be a reporter but," she tilted her head, "given the state of journalism now I think it's good that she's found something else that excites her. I guess ideally maybe she could combine the two, but for now, I'm just happy that she's happy."

Then Lorelai brightened up as she looked over at Emily who was polishing off the last bite of her burger.

"And actually we've been talking about taking a trip down to DC. She went when she was in high school but I've never been."

Emily wiped her mouth as she nodded, "well I'm serious about the offer, so please don't hesitate to call if you do come down." She tipped her head over to Hotch, "we do travel a lot but if I'm in town I'll definitely give you the tour."

Hotch cleared his throat softly, "if we're away Garcia could do it."

At his unexpected contribution to the conversation, Emily looked over at her boss.

He was suddenly very engrossed in the last of his French fries.

Her face softened . . . avoidance technique or not, that was really sweet of him to offer Garcia's services as a tour guide. She knew Lorelai's friendliness was initially a little off putting to him, but she was glad to see he'd come around. She seemed to be a really nice person.

And they so rarely met nice people under NICE circumstances.

This was actually the first time that they'd been to a new town where Emily could remember not having to go _see_ something horrible or meet someone who had _done_ something horrible.

She turned back to Lorelai.

"Uh, yeah, there is one woman on our team who doesn't travel much, so she could show you around if we're away."

Lorelai stood up, and as she was walking around the counter she pursed her lips as she asked, "so what exactly do you guys do?"

Emily's nose wrinkled slightly, as she gave Lorelai a sad smile, "you don't want to know."

This was clearly a woman who lived in a much brighter, happier world than they did. There was no reason to bring any of their darkness into it.

Lorelai stared hard at her for a moment, and then she nodded, "I'll take your word for it."

Then she started bustling around behind the counter and Emily turned to Hotch as he pulled out his wallet. After checking over the bill, he put down twenty bucks on the counter.

Even with tip it only came to fifteen, but they'd certainly gotten above board service.

As he stood up he looked over expectantly at Emily, "you ready?"

She popped her last cold French fry into her mouth.

"Yep, though I'd like to get a coffee for the road."

Hotch nodded . . . and was about to ask Luke to get her that coffee . . . when Lorelai suddenly plopped two cups and a bag down on the counter.

"On the house. Two coffees and a bag of donuts." Her eyes crinkled, "that is what cops eat right? Because that's what Sipowicz ate, and Sipowicz has never lied to me."

Emily laughed openly at the joke, while Hotch's mouth twitched as he looked over at the friendly brunette.

"That's very nice of you Lorelai, but we can pay for them."

But she was already shaking her head before he had even finished his sentence.

"No really," she smiled, "I insist."

Then Luke came up behind her and put his hand on her back, "seriously man, it's fine. Coffee and donuts on the house."

Emily and Hotch looked at each other, and then back to the couple behind the counter. Finally Hotch tipped his head.

"Okay then, thank you. Thank you very much."

Then Emily put her hand out to Lorelai again.

"It was nice to meet you. And thank you for all of your help." She smiled, "hopefully I'll see you again sometime."

Lorelai quirked her lip up, "It was very nice meeting you too Special Agent Emily."

At that new moniker, Emily grinned and one of Hotch's dimples appeared. As he reached over to grab their gift he looked up at Luke and Lorelai, "please do call Prentiss if you're ever town." He shook the bag slightly, "and thank you again for the food. We probably won't get a chance to stop and eat again today so this is much appreciated."

Luke tipped his head and Lorelai gave him a little smile, then Hotch looked down to Emily.

"Ready?"

"Ready."

Emily waved goodbye and as they headed out the door Lorelai yelled, "drive safe! And don't get shot!" The last thing they heard as the door shut was her saying, "wow, never got to say that anyone before."

As they got back out on the sidewalk they stopped and looked at each other. Both of their mouths were twitching. Then Emily grinned, "well, that was something."

Hotch nodded slowly, "it certainly was."

They started walking towards the car as Emily said, "they reminded me of someone but I don't know who."

He passed her the donuts as he dug the keys out of his pocket, "yeah I know what you mean. They did seem vaguely familiar." Hotch unlocked the doors and as they got in he noticed Emily was already poking her head in the bag of donuts. He scowled at her.

"Prentiss, what are you _doing_? You just ate a half a cow!"

She huffed, "I'm just LOOKING. I want to know what my options are for later." Shaking his head at her he started the engine and pulled back onto the street.

Emily sighed as she looked out the window at the diner going passed.

"I really wish I could figure out who they reminded me of."

* * *

_A/N 2: Kavi picked this prompt (we each pick 3) and I got the idea for this crossover story when I thought about the actual episode "Emily in Wonderland" where Lorelai's mother takes a trip to Stars Hollow. And I sort of semi-joked to Kavi that I should have our Emily go to Stars Hollow. And then I decided I liked that idea so much that I actually wrote it. _

_This is presently just a one shot. But I am maybe, sorta considering extending it. One way would be to do the same scene from Luke & Lorelai's point of view, because if you notice I very specifically did not do anything from their thoughts. Beyond that, I could make their little day trip into a mini case that they have to stick around for, and maybe they could stay at the Dragonfly. Again, nothing in the main story would preclude this little trip having taken place._

_And the bit when they first arrive at the diner, when their tipping their heads looking out the window, I was picturing that scene from the GG credits where Lorelai and Rory are doing it :)  
_

_Please do let me know what you think about this one. It's my first cross over ever, and it's my first in another fandom. I've never written Luke & Lorelai before, but as I started doing it I sort of saw Lorelai as being similar to Emily but more lighthearted and outgoing. And Hotch and Luke shared some obvious personality traits anyway. Coupling wise, the chemistry was the same, hence the echoing of the relationships between the couples throughout the story.  
_


	2. Bending the Rules

**Author's Note**: I've decided to continue the crossover world and make this a mini case fic. I haven't really done a case fic before so I figured a mini one would be a good place to start. I know it's an odd choice for a crossover, but it's not a 'goofy' case. This is a CM story so I've toned down the more whimsical elements of GG. I'm just borrowing some of their characters and locations.

* * *

**Bending the Rules**

Emily grimaced as she looked down at the mutilated remains.

Six dogs and five cats had been found butchered over the past six months. All in this one small town with a population of less than 1,200 people. After the fourth set of remains, the sheriff had started suspecting something might be happening beyond just revenge or sick teenagers. By the sixth corpse, the violence had escalated to the point that he'd realized there was a distinct possibility that he had a real psychopath on his hands.

That's when he'd begun holding onto the bodies.

And as Emily looked over the horrors preserved in the freezer case, she knew that he was correct . . . there was something seriously wrong here.

She started to step back from the case, but then her eyes caught on the little heart shaped tag on the golden retriever.

Daisy.

She stared at it, and her eyes began to sting.

Daisy.

That wasn't just a dead dog . . . that was somebody's pet. A furry little member of their family that probably got presents at Christmas and leftovers from dinner, and was in pictures with the family.

She was loved.

And somebody had probably been heartbroken at her loss. That's when Emily looked over the bodies again, this time consciously taking in all of the other tags.

Oscar . . .

Sebastian . . .

Smokey . . .

Princess . . .

Damn it . . . she tried to blink away the tears forming . . . why couldn't this job EVER just be easy?

Feeling her emotions starting to overwhelm her . . . there was just too much heartache in this world . . . Emily dropped the lid on the freezer and spun around. She was started snapping off her gloves as she hurried over to toss them into the receptacle by the door of the storage room.

She just needed to get out of there.

And she was so intent on leaving . . . she just needed some air . . . that she wasn't paying attention as she yanked the door open.

She smashed right into Hotch.

"Whoa," he put his hand up to steady her, "sorry Prentiss." Then he looked more closely at her red rimmed eyes and his tone softened, "are you okay?"

"Yeah," she sniffed as she looked away, "just . . . yeah."

Hotch tipped his head as he looked down at Emily, debating on whether or not he should push it. Her eyes had dropped to the floor, and he could see that she was blinking furiously.

Clearly she was trying to keep from crying.

And he didn't want to force her to lose her composure, so he decided to let it go. If it was important then she'd tell him later. So he just patted her arm as he walked passed.

Then he started pulling out his gloves as he crossed over to the industrial size freezer specially bought just for this case. The sheriff's office didn't have a lab . . . everything went to the State Police . . . so the freezer was tucked into the back of their evidence room/half-assed forensics area.

Basically the room basically consisted of storage for yellow crime scene tape, boxes of rubber gloves, and evidence bags.

When he reached the freezer, for a moment Hotch stopped and stared at the hood. This was never a fun job. But they'd already checked out the arson sites and the scene of the suspicious suicide, and still there was nothing conclusive. But he'd been doing this work for a long time, and he was getting a bad feeling about this one. A very bad feeling.

There was something going on in this town.

"There's something seriously wrong here Hotch."

Hotch's glove snapped as he turned to look back over his shoulder. Emily had her arms crossed at her chest and she was shaking her head at him.

"There's something happening in this town. And it's not just a regular psychopath."

She knew he didn't care for the more colloquial terms, but in this instance it was the only thing that fit. They hadn't sat down yet to do any kind of real profile. And really, sometimes all the fancy psych terms all just boiled down to plain old psychopath. But she didn't think that there was anything 'plain' about this one.

He might just be getting started, but he was definitely hitting the ground running.

Hotch stared at Emily for a moment, jaw twitching, before he turned back to open the hood of the freezer. It took a second for the mist to clear.

Jesus Christ.

The eye sockets were all empty. The tails were cut off, and half the limbs were missing. But the edges around the sockets were smooth cuts so he knew they weren't torn away by scavengers.

They'd been gouged out.

Then his own eye caught on something protruding out of one of the dogs, and he reached in to move the body. He needed a closer look.

Holy God!

For a moment Hotch closed his eyes, his fingers curling back as he tried to clear the image that was burning into his retinas. Emily was right, there was something seriously wrong in this little town.

The lid fell with an 'oomph' as he spun back around.

Emily was biting her lip as she stared at him. He looked at her for a second before nodding.

"You're right, there is something here."

His gaze dropped to the tile floor as he processed what he'd seen so far. Then he shook his head slowly, "but the suicide could still very well be a suicide. There's nothing to indicate that it's not." He looked back up at her, "and excluding that one body, we have no human remains found so far, so I'm not sure how much I can expend on resources at this point."

Emily scowled.

"But Hotch, you just SAW what he did to those animals! That was practice for when he moves up the food chain!"

As he walked back over to her, Hotch started pulling his gloves off.

"Prentiss, I completely agree, but unfortunately we have UNSUBs that have already, quote unquote, 'moved up the food chain.' They're _already_ killing humans and we need to devote our time where we can do the most good." With a sigh he dropped his gloves into the trash, "so I think in _this_ instance, that we're just going to have to monitor the situation and tell the sheriff to call us immediately if there's an escalation in activity. We'll give him some guidelines on things to watch for."

For a second Emily continued to scowl up at him . . . pissed beyond reason at his usual outwardly unflappable Hotchness . . . but then her expression softened slightly as her eyes dropped back to the floor.

It wasn't his fault. She shouldn't be angry with him. Of course she could understand the basic logic in his reasoning . . . dead children dumped dead dogs . . . and there were fresh bodies turning up all over the country almost every God damn day.

But she just KNEW, that if they left now . . . now without doing anything more . . . that this UNSUB was going to continue abducting and butchering family pets. And eventually he would tire of that, and then he was going to take the dog _and _the person out walking it. And that could be just one more dead child on their stats list.

One that maybe they could have prevented.

She looked back up at Hotch.

"Can you and I stay another day? Just one. Just to see if there's anything that the locals missed."

Seeing that he was about to say no, she cut him off with an imploring look.

"_Please_ Hotch, just one more day." Her eyes started to sting again as she once more began to get upset at what she'd seen so far.

"Did you see what he's doing to those animals? Those are people's _pets!_ He's dismembering them. And they're being left on the family's front porches," her voice cracked, "the last one was found by an eight year old girl who went out to call in her puppy."

Realizing that she was getting much too emotional . . . even if it was an informal day, they were still working . . . Emily cleared her throat before she made one last plea.

"Please Hotch, just one more day to see if can come up with anything."

Hotch jaw tightened as he stared at Emily . . . family pets. That's why she was almost in tears.

Her ability to empathize was something to be admired, but he didn't envy it. At times it seemed that gift caused her to hurt in a more personal fashion than the rest of them did.

She couldn't always detach.

Though . . . he thought to himself with a little bit of personal scorn . . . maybe they _shouldn't _always detach. Maybe they _should_ care that Sebastian and Princess and Daisy were dead. Yes, he'd seen the tags too. All of those little pieces of metal in the shape of hearts and dog bones. He had purposely ignored them.

But she hadn't.

And she associated a loving family with each of them. The victims weren't people, but they still had someone who missed them. And that's all Emily could think about when she looked at them.

Bottom-line though, she was right . . . eventually the UNSUB would tire of killing small animals and he'd move on to bigger ones.

For a moment Hotch stared at a scruff mark on the floor. Still though . . . that was always the case. And they couldn't get involved with every serial in the making.

Not when they had serial killers that were already made.

Finally he looked up, about to tell Emily that they had to go home . . . and that's when he saw her wiping at the corner of her eye.

Crap.

With a heavy sigh his eyes dropped back down to the floor again . . . they _were_ already here. He supposed it couldn't hurt to run through it one more time before they left. He lifted his head.

"All right, one more day."

Seeing her expression brighten . . . and trying to temper her enthusiasm . . . he gave her a hard look.

"But that's _all_ I can promise Prentiss. If we're not smashing down somebody's door by eight o'clock tomorrow night, then we have to go home, okay?"

Knowing that this was a non-negotiable point, Emily gave him a small . . . slightly watery . . . smile, "okay."

She hadn't really expected him to even say yes. This was way outside their usual guidelines for involvement.

But . . . she ran her finger along the corner of her eye . . . sometimes he surprised her.

Seeing how happy he'd just made her . . . again, she was always easy to please . . . Hotch's expression softened as he tipped his head to the door.

"Come on," he put his arm up, "let's go pull the incident reports, get some maps and a white board. Maybe we can figure out a pattern." Then he checked his watch, "but we're going to have to do it elsewhere because believe it or not, this police station actually closes down at six o'clock."

Emily looked over in astonishment.

"They keep _office _hours? How is that possible?"

Hotch pulled the door open and stepped back to let her through.

"Budget cuts. Counting the sheriff, they only have four full time officers. Mostly they work patrol, each on an eight hour shift, so the town decided it was cheaper to shut the municipal building down completely after hours unless there was a major incident. And the sheriff said that with the exception of this recent spate of violence, they generally don't have much of a crime rate, so the shut down wasn't much of an issue. Most of their calls are for traffic accidents, a few drunken disorderlies and couple of regular domestic violence calls," he tipped his head as they walked down the hall, "that was it up until the mutilations and the fires."

Emily looked at him.

"So given that's their regular caseload, you're telling me that basically they have no practical investigative experience to have even looked into these cases."

No wonder they hadn't made any progress.

"Well," Hotch bit his lip, "yes and no to that point. The sheriff is retired NYPD, and he had thirty years on the job," he pursed his lips, "that said, he was a beat cop, not a detective. So even coming from the city, he wouldn't have any experience _investigating_ something on this scale."

Though really, with the exception of his team, few departments had much experience investigating things on this scale. Serial offenders weren't like other offenders.

It was a different kind of evil.

Emily sighed as she looked around the small bullpen area that they'd just walked into.

The after hours shutdown at least explained why all of the desks were empty. She'd just assumed that they were on patrol. Then she huffed to herself.

Yeah, actually that was true. The _one_ guy was! And beyond that minimal staffing, it appeared that there was one administrative person on the day shift. And seeing shutting down her computer, Emily checked her watch . . . just after five.

But now where were they going to go work though?

Then a thought popped into her head and she grinned as she started fumbling in her pocket. Hotch was looking strangely at her until she whipped out the business card and flashed it in his face.

"We can stay at Lorelai's inn!"

Hotch blinked as he stared at the little cream colored slip of paper.

"Uh, yeah," he shrugged, "I guess we can. The town doesn't have any lodgings so we were going to have to go out of the city limits anyway."

Nothing Emily's happy demeanor at this development, his eyes crinkled.

"Why don't you call her now and get us a couple rooms, and I'll ask the sheriff for the reports, some maps and office supplies. We'll pack everything up and set up back at the inn." He shook his head, "it's probably just as well we have to leave. You know we always work late so we probably would have ended up sleeping in the conference room here because it was too late to find a motel."

Emily bopped her head as she pulled out her cell phone, "true."

So as Hotch went off to talk to the sheriff, she went over to sit down at one of the empty desks in the corner to call her new acquaintance. She was excited about seeing the Inn.

If nothing else it should beat the Econolodge they stayed in last week.

As Emily looked at the little card, her eyes crinkled.

Dragonfly . . . that's pretty. She punched in the number, mentally crossing her fingers as she did that Lorelai was actually still working. Most regular people did get off work at 5 o'clock.

Just then she heard, "Dragonfly Inn, Lorelai speaking."

"Oh good," Emily sighed in relief, "you're still there." She shifted the phone to her other ear, "this is Agent Prentiss, we met at your husband's diner this morning."

Lorelai smiled into the phone.

"Special Agent Emily, of course! What can I do for you?"

At the other woman's greeting, Emily's eyes crinkled. "Actually my boss and I do need to stay overnight now and we were hoping that maybe you had a couple rooms available?"

Please, please please! Let her get the nice cushy New England B&B mattress just once!

"Sure hon, hold on," Lorelai started tapping on the computer, "yep, got two right next to each other. How long?"

Emily pursed her lips as she thought about the case.

"Um, one day at least, maybe two."

Yes, Hotch had said that they were only staying the one day, but maybe they'd luck out and actually catch the UNSUB. In which case they might need a day for follow up.

Lorelai was nodding as she typed.

"I'll reserve it for three. Need anything else?"

Noticing movement out of the corner of her eye, Emily looked over to see Hotch in the small office down front trying to explain the need for their precious white boards to the sheriff. The reason she knew that he was 'explaining' was because of the hand gestures that he was making.

And she knew he was 'trying' because the sheriff was shaking his head no.

"Yeah actually," she refocused on the call, "do you have any dry erase boards that we could borrow? Those white ones." Then she added, "and maybe a bulletin board? The local sheriff's department seems to be a little short on our usual office supplies."

And Hotch did love the white boards. She honestly wasn't sure if he could solve a case without one!

"Yep," Lorelai nodded, "we have both. We host conferences, so I'll have them set up in your rooms." Then she frowned, "wait, do you want them for both of your rooms?"

"Uh, no," Emily's brow wrinkled slightly, "that's okay. We'll work out of Hotch's room most likely, so putting everything in there is fine. And you have wifi right?"

"Sure do." Came back the immediate response.

As Hotch came over with a scowl on his face, Emily started to wrap up her phone conversation.

"Okay then," she straightened up in her chair, "thanks so much Lorelai. And barring any wrong turns, we'll be there in about a half hour." Then she remembered something else, "oh wait! Sorry one more thing, is your husband's diner still open?"

She was starving again! Emily didn't care what Sipowicz said, man could not live on donuts alone.

Maybe they could get some take out from the diner . . . she frowned . . . if they had take out. God only knows with these little towns.

Lorelai laughed.

"It is open, but if you'd rather stay in and work then I can have Sookie, that's our chef, put together something for you and send it up to your boss' room. And don't tell Luke, but trust me, Sookie's food is as good as his is."

Emily tipped her head back to see Hotch standing over her.

"Yeah thanks Lorelai, food in the room sounds great."

Seeing Hotch tap the case files, Emily nodded as she spoke back into the receiver.

"And if you could please put a do not disturb, or do not enter, whatever on both of our rooms. We're going to have crime scene photos with us."

There was silence for a moment before Lorelai cleared her throat.

"Right, of course," she tapped a couple keys, "all set."

It had just sounded cool being an FBI agent. It hadn't really occurred to her all of the real life nasty stuff that went along with that job title. And 'crime scene photos,' sounded pretty nasty.

"Okay thanks Lorelai, see you in a bit," Emily said good bye, then leaned over to hang up the phone. She looked up at Hotch with a little smile.

"She's sending up a bulletin board, AND a white board, to your room."

Hopefully this would make him happy. Again, he LOVED the white board!

Hotch shot Emily a grateful look, "thank you," he rolled his eyes, "the sheriff didn't have any 'to spare.'"

He couldn't believe it. The Sheriff didn't say that they didn't have "any," no he said that they didn't have any to "spare." And the "any" clearly implied that they had more than one. And they only had ONE cop on duty at a time! So what the fricking hell were they doing with all of the damn white boards!

Making GROCERY lists?

Seeing Hotch's clear annoyance at the white board situation, Emily's lips twitched slightly before she tipped her head down to the box in his hand.

"Original incident reports?"

"Yeah," Hotch nodded as he refocused, "and glossies of the remains. Plus the arson photos, Fire Marshall's reports, the autopsy report on the suicide and a stack of local maps."

As he thought about everything he'd collected, Hotch bit the inside of his cheek. They actually DID have a lot to look over. More than he would have expected.

Perhaps a concentrated review actually would turn up something the locals hadn't seen.

"Good," Emily said as she stood up and nodded, "then maybe after we sift through everything again, we can put together a basic profile and do that geographic thing that Reid usually does for us." She rolled her eyes as they started walking out.

"Too bad he's not here. He loves doing those things."

Hotch waved his goodbye to the sheriff through the glass wall, before looking back down at her.

"Yeah, I know. That's why I've been letting him work victimology so much lately."

Furrowing her brow slightly, Emily shot Hotch a confused glance.

"I thought you were just trying to keep him out of the field because he's a terrible shot and he drives like an old lady."

Hotch looked at her.

"Well, yeah there's that too."

* * *

_A/N 2: I plan on keeping this relatively short, I'm already juggling two big stories. Plus keep in mind this is an offshoot of regular season three so I can't have H/P missing from the full team for long. _

_This is going to be an odd balancing act because you can see I'm going with a really nasty UNSUB but working in the more brightly lit world of Stars Hollow. Hopefully I can pull it off. As I said, everything in GG will be a bit toned down. Trying to keep them true to themselves (whoever I roll in) but all of the characters had some dramatic moments there so it's not a terrible stretch to paint them in softer pallets._

_Please let me know what you think!_


	3. Union Rules

**Author's Note**: Just like in Horses, I am once again getting bogged down in details. But as this is a relationship 'building' story, I figure the details are important so I'm just going with it :) Though that once again does mean this will probably be a smidge longer than it was in my head.

I've decided to ballpark this one in late April. So for canon, that's between '_In Heat'_ and '_Tabula Rasa_.' I was short on eps there so I jumped ahead about three weeks. We'll consider this filler :)

* * *

**Union Rules**

"Oooh! Over there!"

Emily started smacking Hotch's arm, "turn there!"

Even though he was driving he did spare her one quick glare, "I see it, now stop hitting me. My black and blues are just now fading from our last road trip."

Emily had a tendency to get excited. She also had a tendency to 'hit' rather than 'point' when she wanted him to change direction while they were driving.

He wasn't kidding about the bruises.

Seeing the look he was shooting her, Emily sheepishly pulled her hand back, "sorry, I just didn't want you to miss it."

He huffed at her as he turned up the long driveway to the inn . . . as though the girlish shrieks wouldn't have caught his attention.

Of course Emily's subdued enthusiasm only lasted until the inn itself came into site and then she exclaimed.

"Aww! It's so cute!"

Hotch's lips twitched as he pulled into one of the parking spots. He put the car in park and turned off the engine before turning to her, "you do realize that is the fourth thing that you have 'awwed' in the last fifteen minutes?"

They'd found their way back to Stars Hollow easily enough but Hotch wanted to do a quick drive through town just to get the layout before they went to the inn. Emily had not at all been disappointed in the delay.

As she spotted the gazebo again, "aww," the pond with the little bridge, "aww," street after street of white picket fences, big "awww."

He couldn't quite understand it. She'd certainly oohed and awwed things in the past, but she wasn't usually quite so . . . girly.

Her eyes crinkled as she unhitched her seat belt, "I like this place. It's . . ."

She twisted her mouth trying to think of the word, "untarnished." She leaned back in the seat, "you know for all the traveling I did as I grew up, mostly I just saw other countries. I didn't start really seeing America until I was with the Bureau." She gave him a sad smile, "and as you know, usually those aren't pleasant visits. I just think it's nice to go somewhere that's not tainted by tragedy. And I guess that's making me a little more excited about things than maybe I would be otherwise."

Then she looked down as she said softly, "but maybe I'm just being silly."

Probably. She had a tendency to get a little too excited sometimes. It's just usually she hid it better.

At least from Hotch.

Seeing the expression on her face, Hotch's own face softened as he looked over at her. Suddenly he felt badly for teasing. Really, he hadn't thought about it that way before.

But she was right, it was rare that they visited anywhere for a benign reason. He couldn't think of a city or a town across the country that he'd visited where he could call up only pleasant memories. Beautiful scenery, historic architecture, friendly people, all of those thoughts were immediately overshadowed by darker images.

The memories of the murders, or the rapes, or the child abductions he'd been there to investigate.

Clearly it was the same for her, probably for all of them. He felt a pang of regret . . . that was an awful way to live their lives.

He reached over and patted her arm. When she brought her eyes up, he looked at her seriously, "it's not silly at all. I'm sorry for teasing," he nodded firmly, "you enjoy this place. Keep a happy memory."

A soft smile touched her lips as she whispered, "thanks." Then they stared at each other for a moment before Hotch shook his head, "come on, I'm hungry so I'm assuming your starving. Let's go see what they made us for dinner."

She smiled as she picked up their laptops from by her feet, passing Hotch's over to him, "I am starving and Lorelai said the chef's food is as good as Luke's."

Hotch tipped his head as he opened his car door, "well then, dinner should be pretty impressive."

Consistently edible food on the road was a rarity.

Emily nodded as she joined him down back at the trunk, "I hope so, lunch was really good so," she quirked her lip up, "there's kind of a high standard set for dinner."

Hotch's eyes crinkled as he turned to get their duffels out, slinging them both over the same shoulder he already had his laptop hanging from. Then he grabbed the larger of the two evidence boxes. Emily was already carrying her own laptop as she leaned over to take the other box of evidence. She almost groaned, God it was heavy. But still she looked over at him questioningly, "you want me to take something else?"

Hotch didn't usually carry her bag for her. The guys could be chivalrous on occasion, but they weren't generally _that_ chivalrous.

At her inquiry, Hotch just shook his head, "it's fine, but if you could get the trunk though, thanks."

She shifted the box to her thigh so she could slam down the hatch, and then they started across the gravel parking lot. He could see she was struggling a little with the box, and he wanted to take it from her, but with all of their other crap, he was already lugging at least fifty pounds.

And he had given her the lighter of the two evidence boxes. He was carrying the one from the sheriff's department, she had the smaller one from the Fire Marshall. Hotch had almost forgotten it when they were leaving and he'd had to run back inside. It only weighed about twenty five pounds, but it wasn't so much the weight as the awkward lift. It was an odd shape so she couldn't balance it on her hip. So she was carrying it in front of her as a dead weight. And he knew she was in excellent shape, but she still didn't have the same upper body strength that he did.

That's why he'd grabbed her bag.

Beyond just her clothes and toiletries he knew she also had extra clips and case files in there. If she'd tried to pick up the bag and the box, she probably would have tipped over. He glanced at her again, as it was he could see she was about ready to start cursing. Fortunately they were just getting to the porch anyway.

Emily almost sighed in relief as they got to the steps . . . this freaking box weighed a ton! She could see now why Hotch grabbed her bag though, he had already known how heavy the box was. And this was the little one. Her face softened slightly as she glanced over.

He was a good guy.

She looked up as the door opened in front of them. And thank you Jesus, the people were being polite and holding the door for them.

With a double thanks, she and Hotch slipped passed them and stepped into the inn.

Eyes crinkling, Emily scoped out the lobby . . . definitely _way_ better than the Econolodge!

Hearing a "hey guys, over here!" she and Hotch both turned to the left.

Lorelai was waving from the check-in desk off to the side.

Emily smiled as they walked over, "hi, thanks so much for accommodating us on short notice."

Lorelai waved her hand breezily, "pashaw, always happy to help out the federales. Gives me good karma with the IRS."

Hotch's lip quirked up slightly as he dropped their things down at his feet and started digging around in his wallet for the bureau credit card. Mostly they filed for reimbursement on the smaller expenses. They only used the bureau card for big ticket items like room charges, or the occasional commercial flight. Which they'd taken that morning, so actually the bureau card was getting quite the work out today.

He slid it across the counter and Lorelai stared down at it for a moment and then looked back up seriously, "I'm sorry Agent Hotchner but I'm going to need two forms of ID."

His eyebrows narrowed dangerously as he snapped his jaw shut. And of course both she and Emily laughed at him.

Great . . . he dropped his head to his chest . . . now he had two of them.

Lorelai was still smiling as she entered in his credit card info, "sorry, couldn't resist getting another shot at seeing that magnificent scowl. Also, I have years of practice irritating Luke but I wanted to try out my skills on someone new. Make sure I wasn't getting rusty."

Hotch raised his eyebrow at her, "well feel free to continue practicing on your husband alone," he jerked his head to the side, "because I already have somebody that enjoys busting my balls just because she can."

Emily nodded seriously, "that's true Lorelai, he does." Then she fluttered her eyelashes at him, "but I'm still your favorite sir, right?"

His eyes snapped over to hers, "you keep telling yourself that Prentiss." Then he looked down to sign the slip Lorelai had put in front of him.

It wasn't until he was making the H in Hotchner that he realized that was actually true. She was kind of his favorite. Well, neck and neck with JJ.

He wrinkled his brow . . . when the hell did that happen?

Then he shook his head slightly . . . didn't matter. He wasn't allowed to have favorites anyway so it's not like he needed to justify it to anyone. That would just be his little secret . . . he sighed . . . one of a thousand.

Sighing again, he pushed the paper and pen back across the desk. Then he checked the time . . . only a little after six. He shouldn't be losing energy yet.

That's when he remembered that he actually had gotten up at 4:45.

Good Christ this was shaping up to be a long day!

He glanced over to Emily . . . for both of them. She was trying to stifle a yawn.

For a moment his jaw twisted back and forth . . . maybe they should take a little break before they started working. Just eat dinner like regular people do, at a table. He looked back to Lorelai.

"Is your dining room still open?"

She nodded as she stapled their receipts together, "yep, until 7:30," then she looked up quizzically, "but I thought you guys wanted to eat in your room so you could work?"

He took the keys out of Lorelai's hand, directing his answer to Emily as he passed her the other key.

"Well, we're going to be working until after midnight so I was thinking maybe it would be nice to take a little break first and eat dinner downstairs."

Emily flashed him a grateful smile as she pocketed her key.

Yay! They were taking a fifteen minute break! It was almost like being in a union. Plus, they didn't have to be shut-ins, she could actually see a little bit of the inn before they locked themselves away to look at pictures of dead house pets. She frowned as a sense of melancholy tried to creep back, but she pushed it off, she could wallow in the horrors of this case a little later. Hotch called a break.

It was a rarity that she was going to enjoy.

Lorelai started to call over a bellboy to help them with their bags but both Emily and Hotch shook their heads before she had the sentence out. Hotch began slipping the various straps back over his shoulders.

"No it's fine thanks. It's mostly case materials and we prefer to carry them."

He saw Emily nod her agreement, but then he looked over at her as she bit her lip. She was looking down at the box at her feet and then she glanced towards the stairs.

His expression softened . . . that was going to kill her.

Without a word, he slipped his laptop off of his shoulder, placing it onto hers. She was looking at him quizzically until he dropped her box onto his and picked them both up together.

_JESUS THAT WAS HEAVY!_

But he was standing in front of two women . . . so for his ego, he made sure not to groan.

Emily watched him effortlessly heft over fifty pounds of paperwork up from a dead weight on the ground. She gave him a soft smile, "thanks."

He rolled his eyes slightly, "yeah, well, just don't drop my laptop."

Being nice was terrible for his reputation as a hard ass.

Her lips twitched, "yes sir."

Yes, God forbid he get caught doing something nice.

Lorelai watched them for a moment with a smile on her face. They were cute together. And God, if he didn't remind her of Luke! Cranky and ill tempered, but with a good heart. Luke would have carried the box for her too, and he would have blown it off completely just like her boss did.

Her lips pursed slightly . . . she'd assumed Luke was one of a kind but apparently there were some variations on his model. And they came with other accessories like guns and badges. Hers only came with a coffee pot. She didn't care for guns but maybe she could get Luke a badge? A badge _and_ a coffee pot. Now THAT would be hot!

She was interrupted from her musings as she noticed Emily and Hotch looking over at her.

_Duh Lorelai! They've got bad guys to catch! _

She slapped on a bright smile.

"'Kay guys, let's go see your rooms!"

* * *

_A/N 2: I wasn't really planning on telling any of this from GG standpoints but I decided it would add another layer if I included Lorelai's thoughts on occasion. Just from an observational standpoint. I might add a bit of Luke's too but both shall be minimal. It's hard enough keeping a smooth rhythm when I'm just juggling multiple CM team members, and I at least have a fairly good handle on the characters. L&L are new toys and I'm not really used to playing with them._

_It was a coincidence that Emily's 'tendency to get excited' turned up back to back with the last Girl chapter. But it was actually good because this was an earlier point where she was getting more relaxed with him so Hotch was just getting used to that aspect of her personality. And clearly here he wasn't quite so 'enamored' with it as he would later become :)_

_As an aside, I've decided I like this idea of going back to season three and adding in a new 'adventure' for them. It's just that in terms of relationship building I was stuck within the confines of what we saw in canon spread out, generally, week to week. Though clearly I moved outside the box on occasion, something like this, where they're alone and just seeing how they work together does add a new dimension to things. Especially because the end of three was where I was jumping forward in time a bit because of the timing of divorce and the season finale. If this one turns out well I might do this Offshoot thing again at some other point in Girl. That is if I ever finish any of my other epic stories :)_


	4. A Brief Interlude

**Author's Note**: I could probably update this a little more often I just never think to look at it. I will make more of an effort.

This is a prompt chapter within a prompt story. My second entry for the "donut of shame."

* * *

**Prompt Set #4**

Show: SpongeBob Squarepants

Title Challenge: The Donut of Shame

* * *

**A Brief Interlude**

Emily stood in the middle of her room and grinned.

_SO much better than the Econolodge!_

She dumped her bags over on the floor, dropped her suit jacket on the bed and headed over to the bathroom.

Ooh, this was nice too! Maybe she'd have time for a bath later.

Knowing Hotch would be over in a couple minutes to collect her for dinner, she quickly tried to freshen up before she went and saw actual people.

Though, she wasn't very successful at brushing the snarls out of her hair. She'd had the window open all day and there were knots in one side.

After a couple minutes of painful primping she gave a disgusted grunt and dropped the brush on the counter. Screw it, at least she got the leaves out. She moved on to fixing her makeup.

Well, what was left of her makeup. She put it on like thirteen hours ago so basically the only thing still there was her mascara. And that had now left some very attractive raccoon smudges under her eyes. The lipstick was long gone and and her blush was down to one shiny streak under her left cheekbone.

Astounded, she stared at her complexion for a moment . . . God! Between her face and her hair she must have looked like crap for hours! Why didn't Hotch say something?

Then she snorted, yeah like Hotch was really going to tell one of his female agents to put on some lipstick. Those words were about as likely to come out of his mouth as 'nice ass sweet cheeks.' And just the thought of him saying that made her chuckle as she started reapplying her lipstick and fixing her face.

She was still amused as she went to answer the knock a couple minutes later.

Emily opened the door and Hotch blinked, she'd done something to her face. As she said hello he realized what it was that she'd done.

She'd put on makeup.

And the reason he suddenly realized that was the change was because she had a pink smear going across her front teeth.

Lipstick.

It's generally a tricky moment when you see that smear of pigmentation. Most women, you just ignore it. They aren't your responsibility. Somebody else will tell them or eventually they'll walk in front of a mirror. But if it's a friend/loved one you should say something. Emily, like all of his teammates, was by virtue of the amount of time they spent together, in the friend/loved one category.

Though if it was JJ or Garcia he was looking at right now he'd feel a little awkward pointing it out. But one of the lingering benefits of having the impromptu make out session with Emily in that public bathroom so many months ago was that those little awkward societal moments were no longer so awkward.

Once you've had your tongue down a woman's throat and her hand on your crotch, well, telling each other they need to pop a breath mint or that they just dribbled coffee down their shirt, isn't such a big deal.

For instance last week Emily turned to him and casually blurted out that his fly was unzipped. Which he very much appreciated, that is definitely something he needed to know.

Though, he really didn't need to know it as they stood in the center of an elevator packed with members of a ladies senior group that were touring the Academy that day.

And when he grumbled about her timing/volume of her voice as they were walking to the SUV, she said, "well I presumed that was a thing that you'd prefer to know sooner than later. But hey, your call on how long you want to expose yourself in public."

Then he had a brief moment of panic when he thought he actually had been quote unquote "exposing himself." And Emily rolled her eyes explaining that was dramatic license. To which he had countered she wouldn't much appreciate him telling her that "one of her breasts was hanging out" when really she only needed to fix her top button. So perhaps going forward she could dial down the use of "dramatic license" when it came to wardrobe malfunctions. She had snorted her agreement to his assessment about her breast, and after a moment's consideration then conceded that perhaps announcing in front of the Chippewa County Ladies Auxiliary Club, "sir your barn door's open," wasn't the most discrete approach to resolving that situation.

There you go. Apology accepted.

Frank conversations like that would not have been possible if not for those developments in the bathroom.

So as Emily came back across the room carrying her suit jacket and started to step into the hall, he patted her arm. And when she looked at him he ran his tongue across his teeth.

Emily winced, "crap," she ran her tongue over her own teeth and then looked back at him, "better."

His lips twitched, "um, no." He tipped his head back to her room, "I think you should go look in the mirror."

With a roll of her eyes, Emily turned and headed back towards the bathroom. Hotch stepped fully inside her room, shut the door behind him and went over to sit down on the bed.

She was going to be a minute.

He scrubbed his hands down his face . . . God he was tired. How long had they been up?

His brow wrinkled slightly . . . well, only fourteen hours but they'd actually been working/traveling that entire time. That's a long work day. And they still had at least five or six more hours before they could go to bed. Christ.

Leaning back slowly, he lay down on the mattress and closed his eyes. He'd read somewhere that if you just rested your eyes for a few minutes it could rejuvenate you.

He had no idea if that was complete crap or not but at the moment it sounded like the wisdom of the gods.

//////

Emily stared at her reflection the mirror.

Unfreakingbelievable.

Apparently there had been a little clump of lipstick in the smear on her front teeth. And when she had wiped it with her tongue, rather than disappearing . . . as it had the other thousand times she'd done it . . . it had actually ended up spreading it into the little grooves between her teeth.

She looked like the before picture on those gingivitis posters.

Rolling her eyes in disgust, Emily picked up her toothbrush and squirted on a bit of paste. A very little bit. She hated brushing her teeth right before she ate. It always ended up making things taste funny. But at least it wasn't breakfast.

Orange juice and mint toothpaste was a vomitous concoction.

Once her teeth were clean, _again_, she applied her lipstick, _again_. This time taking a moment to blot it on a tissue before she left the bathroom and ended up blotting it on her teeth again.

After she tossed the tissue in the trash she smiled one of those scary horselike grins in the mirror.

FINALLY!

She shook her head in disgust . . . God, what was she twelve? Can't even put on a freaking coat of lipstick without making a federal production out of it. She walked back into the bedroom and stopped short.

Hotch was asleep.

At least she thought he was asleep. She whispered his name to be sure.

"Hotch."

Nothing.

Okay, definitely asleep . . . she worked her mouth back and forth . . . what to do? They needed to get moving on this work tonight. But Hotch wasn't generally much for catnaps so clearly he was exhausted. After all, he had been driving for half the day. She was exhausted herself but she'd at least rested her eyes a little in the car. But her energy was more sapped because her head was killing her.

Stupid sinuses were getting stuffed up from being out in nature all day.

All right . . . she checked her watch . . . the dining room was open for another hour. No matter what else happened she already knew they were going to be up until after midnight reviewing the case files. So yeah, okay, maybe he should get a little nap in now. He'd be a bit fresher when they started looking at the reports. After all the whole point of this exercise was to find something that had already been missed. That was harder to do when you couldn't see straight.

With that thought she realized maybe she should rest her eyes too. After all what was she going to do, sit here and watch him sleep? Scintillating though that activity may be, a nap sounded a bit more appealing.

She quietly pulled off her boots and climbed up on the bed. He'd fallen asleep lying across the bottom so she just curled herself up at the top.

Just before she closed her eyes she remembered to set the alarm on her phone. She decided thirty minutes. They had sixty minutes until the kitchen closed and they could eat fast. And with that last thought she sighed and closed her eyes, trying to put the last images of Princess, Sebastian and Daisy out of her head.

/////

Hotch was awoken by a kick to the face.

He opened his eyes to find Emily's stocking foot pressed against his cheek. He snorted and rolled to the other side, pushing himself off the bed as he yawned.

How long had he been sleeping? He checked his watch . . . eh, maybe twenty minutes. That's not bad. And he actually did feel a little better than he did before.

Apparently there was something to that resting your eyes crap.

He reached down to tap Emily on the shoulder and then he noticed her cell phone lying next to her. The little alarm clock symbol was on the screen and he picked it up to see how much time was left.

Fifteen minutes.

Putting it down on the bed again he looked back at her curled up in a ball.

His expression softened . . . she always looked so vulnerable when she was sleeping. He got so used to her being such a hard ass at work that when they were on the plane and he'd look over to see she'd fallen asleep, he'd remember . . . she wasn't quite as invincible as she sometimes appeared to be.

Like right now she didn't look like the same woman he'd seen slam a drunk against a wall. Right now she looked little and fragile.

Seeing her goosebumps, he knitted his eyebrows together . . . and cold.

As he looked around the room he spotted a quilt folded up on the cedar chest next to the dresser. He crossed over and grabbed the quilt, shaking it out before he went back, spreading it over her, and tucking it up around her shoulders.

He figured he'd give her the extra fifteen minutes. Obviously he'd fallen asleep before she had so she deserved to at least get the same length of time for her nap.

Once she was covered up he went over and picked up her laptop. All of the evidence boxes were in his room but he could get started on an outline of the general facts of the case as they knew them now. If he got all the prep work done before dinner then hopefully things would go more smoothly later.

He kicked his shoes off and carefully sat back down on the bed, moving the pillows around so he could lean against the headboard. Given how much he had jostled the bed, before he began working, Hotch looked over to make sure Emily was still sleeping.

His eyes crinkled at the slight bit of drool running out of her mouth. From the plane he knew that she didn't usually sleep with her mouth open so she must be a little stuffed up. As he thought about it he remembered that this afternoon she'd been complaining about her allergies bothering her.

They were still at an earlier stage in spring up here and there was a lot of pollen in the air. He made a mental note to ask Lorelai if they had any allergy medicine. If not, then tomorrow morning he'd just make sure to stop at that market he saw next to the diner and she could get some there.

He stared at her for a moment longer, and then with a sigh he turned back to the computer and started a new document.

/////

Emily's lashes fluttered against her cheek as her eyes began to open. Her alarm had just woken her but as she reached for it the noise ceased. She rolled to the other side and saw Hotch looking down at her.

He was holding her phone in his hand.

"Hi."

She gave him a sleepy smile, "hi, when did you wake up?"

"When somebody's foot kicked me in the face," he responded drolly.

She snorted, "sorry," then she took note of the fact that she was now covered with a blanket that she didn't have before. Her eyes crinkled as she felt the quilted material . . . he always covered her up on the plane too. When he wasn't being a cranky bastard, Hotch was actually quite sweet.

Unfortunately cranky bastard was default mode.

Pushing the blanket back, she sat up and peered over at the laptop.

"What are you working on?"

He pursed his lips, "just some prep work on what we've learned so far," he hit save on his file before closing the cover and turning towards her, "I didn't really see the point of delving into the evidence yet, and you still had time on your alarm so I figured I'd let you sleep."

"Thanks," she stifled another yawn and then muttered, "crap, now I need to brush my teeth again."

His eyes crinkled, "just eat a tic tac. You've already put on your lipstick twice. I don't know if we have time for you to take a third swipe at it. The kitchen will be closed by the time we get downstairs."

She shot him a dirty look as she started to push herself up to go find her bag. Then she heard the unmistakable clatter of the little mints hitting the plastic box. She looked over her shoulder at Hotch shaking the container.

"I stole them."

Her lips twitched as he tossed the box over to her.

"Was there money left after you were done rifling through my purse?"

He rolled his eyes, "Prentiss you only have three bucks in your wallet. What was I going to buy with that? Another box of tic tacs?"

Indignant, her eyes widened as she looked over, "you actually went into my wallet!? Were you really going to clean me out?"

Simultaneously shaking his head and rolling his eyes, Hotch reached down to pull his shoes on. Then he turned his head back to shoot her a dry look, "uh no, I was not planning on committing petty larceny this evening. That was an educated guess. You _rarely_ have more than three dollars in your wallet."

And really if he was going to swipe anyone's wallet it was going to be Rossi's!

She frowned, "that's because I use my debit card for everything," she rolled her eyes, "you're like the only person I know," she quirked her lip up, "besides my DAD," she tipped her head, "and Dave, who is my dad's age, that carries around three hundred dollars in small bills."

He scowled at her insinuation that he was old.

"I prefer cash. I take it out, I know how much is gone from my account and I deduct it from the register," he raised his eyebrow, "you on the other hand are always shoving those little slips in your pockets. And I know you lose half of them and then you have no idea how much money you've spent." He looked at her quizzically, "how _do_ you balance your checkbook?"

"I don't. I just make sure there's no little minus sign in front of the checking account balance," her lip quirked up, "that's good enough for me."

Hotch rolled his eyes, "that's very responsible Prentiss."

She turned to put her boots on, "hey, I have no spouse, no dependents and no pets, if the entire system breaks down one of these days and I end up on the street I won't have to share my cardboard box with anyone," she stopped, trailing off, "wow, that sounds like a really depressing future."

Maybe she should get a fish or something. Eh, how would she afford fish flakes if she was living on the street? She could get a cat. No . . . she frowned . . . she was never home. The poor thing would be all by itself half the month. Man, maybe she really would be living in her box all by herself.

That sucked.

With a slight wrinkle in her brow, she stood up and turned around to face her boss.

Hotch could tell from the look on Emily's face that she actually was bothered by her own offhand observation. So he tried to cheer her up, "Prentiss I'm quite sure that once you reach the point of utter financial ruin you'll have somebody to share your box with."

Emily's lips twitched and then she snorted, "thanks sir."

"Anytime," he raised his eyebrow, "now are you ready for dinner?"

She gave him a look and he put his hand up, "sorry, scratch that, dumb question. You're always ready for dinner."

Her eyebrow shot up as she walked around the bed, "like you aren't looking forward to trying the food too. Lorelai said this Sookie person cooks as well as Luke," as she saw his mouth begin to open in protest she gave him a look, "and don't try to tell me that you didn't enjoy your lunch. You already agreed with me that the diner food was excellent."

Hotch tipped his head, "Luke's food was excellent. And I will allow a certain curiosity about the cuisine at the inn," he raised a sardonic eyebrow, "but my point was not about the food we are _about_ to consume. My point was that you are always looking for additional food _to_ consume. After all, _I_ wasn't the one that ate three donuts and topped them off with a bag of chips out of the vending machine this afternoon."

"Hey," she scowled indignantly, "YOU bought me those chips!"

"That's because I wanted a DAMN donut! If I hadn't distracted you with the Lays then I never would have been able to get my hand in the bag!"

He winced. Crap. He definitely did not mean to say _that_ out loud.

She furrowed her brow in confusion, "well, why didn't you just tell me you wanted a donut? I would have given you one," she frowned, "you didn't have to bribe me to share."

He'd bought her honey barbecue chips. They were her favorite kind. And here she'd thought he was being nice, turns out he just wanted a stupid donut.

Seeing that he'd clearly just hurt her feelings, he felt like a complete jerk. Why didn't he just keep his mouth shut? It was just a stupid donut. Nice Aaron. Taking a breath he tried to explain without making it worse.

"I didn't say anything because it was obvious that you really liked the donuts. And I thought if I gave you something of equal value then you wouldn't mind so much about losing the last one."

Her face softened, "oh."

So apparently he was being nice . . . her eyes dropped to the carpet as she frowned . . . he was being nice to her even though she was being selfish. She should have shared without him having to ask. The gift was for both of them, not just her.

Her eyes snapped back up to his. They stared at each other for a moment and then he tipped his head towards the door, "ready?"

She nodded slowly, "yeah."

Hotch opened the door, stepping back for her to exit before him. Then she stopped and gave him a little smile, "how about we stop at Luke's in the morning and I buy you another donut? You would have liked the cinnamon one."

He stared at her for a moment and then his eyes crinkled, "sounds good."

There were so many ridiculous disagreements that invariably came about when you spent fifteen, sixteen hours a day with another person in a high stress job. It was important to not let the little things fester.

That was Emily's apology for hogging the donuts.

Then his thoughts stuttered for a moment as he realized what he'd done. He'd let his own stupid issue fester and ended up inadvertently blurting out in a hotel room that he had only been nice to her because he wanted something in return. He felt a pang of guilt as he looked down at her.

And accident or not, that was a really crappy thing to do.

So he gave her a soft smile, "you get breakfast and my treat for dinner, okay?"

Her eyes crinkled as she patted his arm, "okay."

As they started down the hall she realized that this was how they had always made amends. Right from the beginning, they had always evened the scales by offering something tangible in return for forgiveness. It was never a traditional apology. She glanced over at him and he looked down and shot her a dimple.

Her lip quirked up, well traditional or not . . . she started down the stairs . . . it definitely worked for them.

* * *

_A/N 2: It's really fortunate I already said this whole story is only going to take place over like three or four days because like Horses, this one's rolling along at a bit more of a minutial pace than I had planned. Though I do like exploring the nature of their relationship a bit more fully back in season three. I was stuck with the canon format of basically one chapter, covering one issue, for each episode. It was the only way to get through everything but it's nice to go back to that time now and see how they would have been interacting with one another on a daily basis given the events that had come before._

_And I got the idea for the donut bit because I definitely wanted to write a lighter 'donut of shame' piece. It's just not right to make a SpongeBob prompt all halfass angsty._

_If you have a moment please do hit the little button. Thanks :)_


	5. Dinner and a Show

**Author's Note**: Yes, I'm popping up on old stuff all over the place! And really, it's all due to the computer crash. I was forced to look through all my files and here we are! So perhaps there was a silver lining to all my trauma :)

You'll probably need to refresh your memory here :) but we're picking up with them right after we left them in chapter 4. Remember this is part of Universe A, so there are some prior references to events in Girl.

* * *

**Dinner and a Show**

When they got to the bottom of the stairs, Hotch and Emily turned and headed over to the dining room that they had spotted when they first arrived.

But as they stood in the doorway they saw that the place looked empty. Hotch's brow wrinkled as he checked his watch.

Huh . . . they should still have another half hour.

He and Emily exchanged a look, and as she shrugged her shoulders he turned around, spotting a man in a blazer carrying a stack of towels.

Assuming that he worked at the inn, Hotch called out to him, "excuse me, do you know if they're still serving dinner?"

The man shot him a sneer before he responded in a haughty French accent, "if you check the door _sir _you will see the posted hours for the dining room are right there in front of you."

And then as he turned away he added something in French. Hotch didn't speak French, but from the tone he knew it had to be derogatory. But then he saw the thunderclouds on Emily's face and realized it was probably pretty bad.

Before he'd even blinked, Emily had shot out from his side and was right in the smarmy jerk's face.

"You want to say that again?" She asked frigidly.

Unfortunately for him, Hotch noted that he did indeed utter the same phrase again.

Clearly not only was he a jerk, but also a moron. It was obvious from her reaction that she'd understood him.

She just wanted to see if he'd say it to her face. And now that he had, Hotch watched with no small amount of amusement as Emily swept the guy's knee, knocked him face down on the carpet and pinned his arm behind his back. Then she started yelling at him in French.

As always when he saw her in action, Hotch felt a little surge of pride. And he was more than a little impressed that she was capable of multicultural ass kicking!

Just as that thought came to him, Lorelai came around the corner of the dining room and yelped.

"GAH! WHAT . . . WHAT . . .?!"

For a moment Lorelai was speechless, utterly without speech.

It was a rarity for her.

Finally her eyes snapped up to Agent Hotchner as she asked in horror, "WHAT is she _doing_!?"

Tipping his head quizzically, Hotch looked down at Emily, "well, I don't speak French so I'm not sure what she's saying exactly, but I'm assuming that she's expressing dissatisfaction with his attitude. I asked him if they were still serving dinner. He responded in French, after which he said something in particular that Agent Prentiss did not care for."

Though clearly, "did not care for," was a bit of an understatement, it was best to "deemphasize" the level of emotional response when speaking to civilians.

Even nice ones that slipped them free bags of donuts.

Lorelai flapped her hand at him in a panic, "well, shouldn't you like do SOMETHING!?"

Why is he just STANDING there?! Isn't this like a B&A or A&B or whatever the hell the federal something something equivalent is?!

His brow rose in confusion as he looked between Emily and Lorelai. Then he shook his head slowly at the brunette that wasn't down on the floor, "uh no, no she's fine by herself."

Wasn't it obvious that Emily had this under control?

With a roll of her eyes Lorelai huffed, "no I mean like STOP her from killing him!"

Hotch shook his head, "she won't kill him, she won't even leave a mark on him. And I know that she's hungry so she'll be done in a minute."

Emily wasn't predisposed to randomly throwing strange men to the ground, so Hotch knew whatever it was that had set her off had to have been pretty bad. Probably bad enough actually that it was best that he himself didn't speak French.

His level of restraint was a bit frayed after this many hours on the clock.

Hearing the front door open, Hotch snapped his eyes over to see Luke standing on the other side of the room. The two men exchanged a nod and then Luke's gaze dropped down to Emily with her knee in Michele's back.

She was still yelling at him in French, and now Michele was starting to cry.

Luke smirked before he looked back up at Hotch, "would you guys like to move here? If she kicks his ass on a regular basis you can eat free at the diner anytime you want."

Hotch's mouth quivered slightly as Lorelai's eyes bugged out and she snapped.

"LUKE!"

He scowled back at her, "what? Somebody should have done this years ago! You know he deserves it."

If he hadn't thought Lorelai would kill him, Luke would have done this HIMSELF years ago!

Her appetite finally getting the better of her, Emily stood up, dusting off her knees as she looked over at Lorelai, "trust me, he did deserve it. He's actually lucky I didn't break his nose for what he said."

Actually Hotch would have probably put him through the window for what he said about his mother.

With a scowl she looked back down at the cowering ball on the floor, "and he's such a little weasel that he thought he'd be cute and say it in French like nobody was going to understand him."

Recognizing the look in Emily's eyes . . . he'd last scene it at Smokey's right after she jammed the pool cue in that guy's throat . . . Hotch went over and collected her before she kicked the jackass in the groin.

Luke stepped over Michele still curled up in a ball on the floor as he directed his remarks to Emily, "hey, before you leave, there's this guy called Taylor. I'd really like for the two of you to meet."

Man, he could sell tickets. They could do it as a throw down at Miss Patty's!

Emily's lips twitched as she straightened out her jacket, "we'll see."

God . . . she huffed to herself . . . why couldn't they ever just have a _normal_ dinner like _normal_ people? There isn't even an UNSUB in the place and they still started off the evening with an act of violence.

Hotch huffed to himself as he looked between Luke and Emily . . . great, now she's a gun for hire.

Yojimbo with a manicure.

With his hand ghosting over Emily's back . . . he wanted to be able to snatch her jacket if the dumbass decided to open his mouth again . . . Hotch turned to Lorelai, "actually we were wondering if the kitchen was still open," he flicked his eyes over to the sniveling little jerk on the floor, "that's actually how we met him. As I said, I asked HIM, that question."

Now that she'd heard what had happened, Lorelai winced . . . of course, they'd asked him a question. And he had responded as he always did.

Rudely.

But apparently . . . and unfortunately for Michele . . . Emily spoke French.

A moment later Lorelai's brow furrowed . . . huh, now she was wondering exactly what Michele had been muttering to _her_ all these years.

If it was bad enough for Emily . . . a woman with impeccable taste in boots and thus far supremely civilized manners . . . to knock him to the ground, then it must have been WAY worse than she'd thought it was!

For his real . . . and imagined . . . transgressions Lorelai shot Michele a scowl as he slowly pushed himself up off the floor, "I'll deal with you later."

His jaw dropped before he exclaimed indignantly, "but she was the one that attacked me! I didn't do anything! She's a crazy bi . . ."

Michel's mouth snapped shut as Hotch took a step towards him.

"She's a crazy what?" His voice was frigid.

If this little shithead thought he was going to call Emily a crazy bitch then he was about to be eating carpet again.

Michele shook his head vehemently, "nothing," and with eyes wide in fear, he snapped his head back to Lorelai, "I'm going to take my break now."

And he ran out the front door before she could do more than open her mouth.

Luke muttered to himself, "definitely have to get them to move here."

With a groan, Lorelai looked after the door that just slammed shut. And then her eyes dropped down to the towels all over the floor.

Sometimes she really couldn't remember why it was that she kept Michele around.

Then she looked down in horror as she saw Emily and Agent Hotchner had begun picking up the Egyptian cottong.

What were they doing!?

She started waving her hands as she yelled, "oh guys! Please, please leave them! I'll get them in a minute."

So much for getting a good review in Fodor's.

_Come to the Dragonfly, get insulted by a surly Frenchman, then get into a violent altercation and top it all off by bussing the lobby!_

Emily looked up at Lorelai with a smile, "it's fine. He dropped them because of me."

After she stood up, she took the other towels from Hotch and walked over to hand them to Lorelai, "here you go."

Always clean up your own mess. Her father had taught her that the first day she accidentally busted a Marine's nose during self defense practice. She had to mop the floor AND wash his uniform. It was a good lesson.

The next time she was much more careful where she threw her elbow.

With a shake of her head Lorelai gave her a slightly exasperated smile, "thanks, but you _really_ didn't need to do that. And I apologize for whatever it was that Michele said to you. I know he's kind of a jerk sometimes but he actually is a very good worker,"

Hearing Luke's snort, Lorelai quickly amended her comment before her husband could contribute any of his peanut gallery remarks to the conversation.

"Well," she tipped her head, "he's good at his job when he chooses to be. He just shouldn't be around . . . uh, well, um people, really."

Yeah Lor . . . she chastised herself . . . that doesn't sound too idiotic!

Hotch raised his eyebrow as he walked up next to Emily, "unusual personality trait given that he was hired to work in the _hospitality_ business."

And the more he thought about the near miss on 'crazy bitch' the more irritated he was. Hotch made a mental note that if he saw Pepe Le Pew again during their visit to make the little skunk piss his pants.

Luke rolled his eyes, "thank you!"

After she shot her husband another look, Lorelai gave Agent Hotchner a sheepish smile, "I know. And again, I apologize for his behavior. Just for all the aggravation, dinner's on the house."

When she saw the look on Agent Hotchner's face after her offer, Lorelai immediately had a horrible thought.

_Oh God! Had she just tried to bribe a federal agent?! _

Man . . . she started to panic . . . she could get sent to the hoosegow for that! Wait, do they still call it the hoosegow? And how did that become a synonym for prison? Those words sounded nothing alike and she was pretty sure the Latin prefix suffix thing was going to fail her on this one. Where the hell was Rory when she . . .

Her instantaneous internal ramblings about prison and the genesis of the word hoosegow were cut off as Agent Hotchner protested, "no, no that's not necessary at all," he added drolly, "we get treated much worse than that on a regular basis."

If only she knew what they actually did for a living. He'd take two dozen snotty little Frenchmen over a cannibal any day.

Emily cut in with a smirk, "yeah, he didn't even try to kill us, so really," she shrugged, "no harm done," then she tipped her head to Hotch, "and actually he owes me dinner so you'd totally be messing up our equilibrium if you don't let him pay."

That was sweet of Lorelai to offer, but the dinner/breakfast tradeoff thing was vitally important for her and Hotch to maintain good karma.

And apparently she wasn't the only one who knew that. Because her eyes crinkled slightly as she saw Hotch nod as he said seriously, "it's true, I do her dinner."

Emily very subtly bumped his shoulder with her own . . . good man.

Feeling Emily's shoulder bump, Hotch's lips twitched almost imperceptibly. But he quickly schooled his features again as he remembered where they were.

In public and on duty.

His amusement at Emily's, well . . . Emily, was something that he kept strictly under his hat unless they were alone. And even then, he tried to keep it from her as well.

God knows she didn't need any encouragement!

Though . . . his mouth started to quiver again as he heard her stomach growl beside him . . . occasionally it was just HER and nothing she actually did consciously that brought a spark of amusement to his day.

Him NOT hiring her two years ago, was one of the best things that had ever happened to him.

But he knew that the stomach growling would make her uncomfortable. Like him, Emily didn't like to appear weak . . . in other words, "human" . . . in front of people they didn't know.

So he cleared his throat and said loudly, "well, Lorelai if the dining room is still open do you think we could please get some dinner now?"

At Hotch's sudden outburst, Emily's eyes dropped to the ground to hide her little smile. He'd heard the growl, he knew that she got embarrassed over things like that, and he was covering. It was sweet.

Really though, it WAS embarrassing!

Like Hotch, she didn't like to be perceived as mere mortal in front of the general public. The personas they projected were carefully crafted.

They were cool and in control at all times.

Luke and Lorelai seemed nice, but they didn't need to know that she had self esteem issues. Or that she was occasionally a complete spaz in her personal life.

And they certainly had no business knowing that Hotch . . . her eyes shifted over to him . . . was still suffering a severe depression from the loss of his family.

Those things were private.

And as Lorelai gave them an embarrassed smile, "sure guys, sorry," she extended her arm, "right this way," Emily also slipped back into cool, professional mode as she tipped her head.

"Thanks Lorelai. We'll be quick, I'm sure the kitchen's closing soon."

"Oh, don't worry about that," Lorelai brushed off her concern, "Sookie's always here late."

After everything that had just happened, Lorelai would stick around and bring them a midnight snack if that's what they wanted.

Okay, the snack would have to consist of pop tarts and coffee but still, the principle was the same.

Whatever they wanted they were getting.

"Nonetheless," Hotch's hand glided over Emily's shoulder as they entered the dining room, "we have work to do so we won't be long."

"Right," Lorelai smiled tightly as she suddenly remembered the reason for their visit, "we'll get you in and out in a jiff."

She started to plop menus down in front of them but then she raised her eyebrow, "if you guys aren't fussy," she tipped her head, "or allergic, I can just have Sookie send out tonight's special. It would probably be quicker."

For a moment there was silence, and Lorelai's lips twitched as she watched the two FBI agents have an unspoken conversation across the table.

Even after everything that just happened, they were still funny to watch.

Finally Agent Hotchner looked up and spoke for both of them, "that sounds fine, thanks, but Agent Prentiss would also like a cup of whatever today's soup is."

Lorelai smiled, "sure guys, two specials and a soup du jour. Though," she looked questioningly at Agent Hotchner, "if you don't mind my asking, um, how did you know she wanted soup?"

In their silent exchange neither one of them had so much as mouthed something to the other.

"She's cold," Hotch responded flatly as Emily immediately nodded her agreement, "I am."

Her brow wrinkled quizzically as Lorelai looked over at Emily . . . she wasn't shivering or rubbing her arms.

So how did he know that she was cold?

Seeing that Lorelai was perplexed, Hotch added quietly, "her fingertips are blue and she keeps touching her nose."

"Ah," Lorelai was silent for a second before her lip quirked up slightly, "gotcha. Okay, well," she hooked her thumb over her shoulder, "I'll just go put in your order."

Emily watched as Lorelai hurried away, then she turned to Hotch with a grin, "you and your magical powers."

New people were always freaked out by behavioral reading. It was kind of like a parlor trick.

Hotch's lips twitched slightly as he shook out his napkin.

"Yes, well, you don't need to be Kreskin to know that you have a body temperature on par with a Komodo dragon," he responded drolly.

Emily's eyebrow rose in amusement as she took a sip of her water. Then her mouth quivered slightly as she looked across the table, "a _dragon_? I remind you of a KOMODO dragon?"

She wasn't sure if she should be flattered or insulted.

Feeling the slight warmth on his face, Hotch dropped his eyes down to the place setting for a moment.

Damn National Geographic!

Once he was sure his complexion was its normal hue, he looked up, clearing his throat before he explained awkwardly, "I was watching something on TV last night . . . apparently it made an impression."

He really couldn't believe he just likened Emily to a Komodo dragon though.

"Oooh, ooh!" Emily suddenly exclaimed in excitement, "was that Dangerous Encounters with Brady Barr?"

Brady was no Mike Rowe but he'd do in a pinch.

"Yes," Hotch's lip quirked up, "as a matter of fact it was. Did you see it?"

He'd forgotten that he'd turned her on to nature videos last year.

She grinned, "I did! I loved that one! Did you see Jurassic Shark?"

This was great! She didn't know anybody else that watched these shows. But of course Hotch was the one that first suggested them as a good way to de-stress. And at her inquiry, Hotch's eyes lit up as he leaned forward and started talking about the search for the prehistoric shark.

Her burst of happiness faded a bit when she was suddenly struck by a pang of sadness that they couldn't do this more often.

She and Hotch hardly ever just talked about regular stuff. Usually he was so closed off that there was no entry point for her to even broach normal conversational topics.

That was too bad.

Not only did she really like Hotch as a person . . . his sweet qualities definitely outweighed the cranky bastard tendencies . . . but she'd been worried about him since the divorce. And really she was convinced that he'd be happier if he'd just open up a little more.

But as she looked over at him now, she realized if she brought that up now, it would probably ruin the moment.

So instead she smiled brightly as she passed him one of the rolls the waiter had just put on the table.

"Did you see the one on the most venomous creatures in Australia?"

Hotch slowly pulled the roll back to his plate as he stared at her for a moment.

Wait, a minute. What were they doing here?

As he saw her sparkling eyes, and expectant look, his lip quirked up . . . they were talking about something besides work.

It was nice.

And they had the whole rest of the night to look over mutilated animal remains and review the details of the autopsy report, so he decided he'd just go with it.

A half a dimple slipped out as he nodded, "yeah, that was a good one."

He slid the butter over to her as he smiled.

"Which episode's your favorite?"

* * *

_A/N 2: A little groundwork for their later friendship. Though Hotch of late season 3 generally strikes me as a 'work through dinner' kind of guy, I figured they'd had a pretty long day so he might be open to being normal for ten minutes. _

_And I always HATED Michele and could not for the life of me understand why they kept him around! He was a total schmuck! Snotty, ill tempered, lazy, I just didn't get it. I could get that Lorelai was stuck with him when it was the Independence, but she took him with her to the Dragon Fly! So I saw this as a good opportunity for him to have some come uppance. Because really, anyone with a pair who had ever run into him would have given him a fat lip. And trust me, what he said about Hotch's mom was worth way worse than what Emily did to him. Which was really just scare the crap out of him. I thought it best though to leave both his insult and her responding threats (she did make him cry) to your imagination. Basically though, the worst thing you could think._

_I would LOVE to get this wrapped up soon. I really never intended for it to be longer than like three chapters. We're now at five. As I'm wrapping Girl I'm going to try to simultaneously figure out the ending for this one. Honestly, I put this up last spring, and I do NOT want it to still be ongoing by the time the one year anniversary rolls around!_

_What do you think? I added a bit more Lorelai thoughts to this one, did they work? It's weird writing outside CM. Which reminds me, I ordered the first two seasons of Third Watch and I am planning on writing a Bosco Yokas "finale fix" for the two of them. I hated how the producers F'd up their friendship again and didn't give them time to fix things before they ended the show._


	6. Finding a Pattern

**Author's Note**: First off, Happy Mother's Day! And if you're looking for Mother's Day stories there are a couple up in the TV Prompt forum :)

As to THIS story, we're picking up with them a few hours after dinner.

* * *

**Finding a Pattern**

Hotch stepped out of the bathroom, trying to stifle his yawn as he looked across the room. Then his brow knitted together in a scowl.

"Prentiss! Are you dropping food on my bed?"

God, he'd only left her alone for ninety seconds! But . . . he watched her frantically try to hide the remains of the petit four by shoving the whole thing in her mouth . . . it was his own fault for not hiding the box of pastry that the chef had given her.

They'd finished dinner almost two hours ago and that meant it was just about the time she'd be looking for some dessert.

"Um . . . no?" Emily garbled around the scrumptious pastry she'd just jammed into her mouth.

When in doubt a rhetorical nonsensical answer was always the way to go.

But she could immediately tell from the look on Hotch's face that her response wasn't accomplishing the deflection that she had intended. And a second later she knew why.

"You have frosting on your nose."

Hotch stated flatly as he crossed his arms at his chest. To which Emily smiled sweetly . . . he could now see the chocolate on her teeth . . . before she wiped the back of her hand over her nose. Then she leaned down and picked up something off the floor.

She turned back, swallowing her bite as she held the box up.

"Want one? They're really good!"

If a nonsense answer doesn't work, a bribe is also a good deflection. Granted Hotch wasn't generally into sweets, but she had nothing else to entice him with at the moment. Well, she of course had other "stuff," to entice him with, but they didn't actually have that kind of relationship.

Besides, sexual favors seemed rather an extreme apology for dropping some petit four bits on his bedspread. And yes, she did acknowledge that she had indeed dropped food on his bed after he SPECIFICALLY told when they got the box of desserts to NOT make a mess on said bed. But she was _going _to clean it up! Really, she was.

Just as soon as she figured out how to get butter cream frosting out of brocade silk with only spit and a fingernail.

Hotch's jaw twitched once before he rolled his eyes and walked back over to the white board.

Sometimes it was best to just let it go.

"Okay," he picked up his marker again, "what have we learned so far?"

Realizing that she'd somehow already been forgiven for making a mess on his bed . . . that was easy(!) . . . Emily quickly dropped the box of delicious pastries back on the floor as she picked up her notepad again.

"Um," she sucked the chocolate off her teeth as she read over her notes, "you know I was thinking that it might be easier if we do the geographic overlay before we do the summary."

After a few seconds of not hearing Hotch say anything in response to her suggestion, Emily lifted her eyes to see him looking quizzically at her.

"Why do you say that?"

It wasn't the way they usually approached these things. There was a process and the first step in the process . . . after they reviewed the evidence, which they had just spent the last two hours doing . . . was toss around what they knew, write it down, start trying to shape a profile.

Her brow scrunched up, "I don't know, it's just that," she folded her leg under her as she leaned back against the headboard, "we don't have that much time to review everything and I just thought that if we started at the end step, doing the detail work before we start getting tired, then we'd actually have something to look at while we're doing the discussion and analysis," she tipped her head, "you know what I mean?"

It wasn't the conventional approach, but Hotch . . . for all his rules . . . was generally open to new ideas. Whatever solved the case. And for some reason she just felt like they might have more luck this way.

They'd both been up for going on eighteen hours and . . . nap or not . . . at some point their mental acuity was going to be about as sharp as a butter knife.

Hotch looked at her for a moment, then over to the bulletin board where he'd pinned the maps.

City, county and geographic overlay respectively.

"Okay," he put the cap on his magic marker and picked up the pack of sticky flags, "you tell me where."

They were only here reviewing this evidence because of Emily's impassioned plea. So he figured if she thought this slightly unconventional approach was the best way to garner results, then he'd follow her lead.

And she did have a point . . . doing this part while their brains were still sharp seemed wise. They'd certainly put together profiles after longer days, but in those instances more of them were working. And more brains meant less chance that something would be missed.

With just the two of them working this way probably would be best.

Seeing Hotch pick up the box of flags, Emily realized that she was on deck.

"Oh, okay, um," she picked up the first file on the bed next to her, "start with the town map and put a red flag on 15 Howard Lane and uh," she flipped open the next one, "I guess a blue flag on 27 Maple Street."

Hotch did as requested as he clarified, "red for cats, blue for dogs?"

"Yeah," she swallowed, "right."

Up until he asked the question, she'd been doing very well all evening distancing herself from her earlier emotional response to the situation. She didn't want Hotch to think she was getting too soft so she'd been averting her eyes from the pictures . . . the little collars . . . and just reading the words on the page.

Fortunately . . . as with human victims . . . the incident reports simply referred to "the body."

And the rest of it . . . the true brutality of what had happened to those animals . . . was coached in the standard, cool detachment of police reports the world over.

The use of words like "excavate and "vivisect," rather than "gouged" or . . . "hacked."

Regardless of the species of the victim, that emotionally distant language is what enabled them to do their jobs. But now Emily had to be descriptive with the nature of the body found.

And . . . her gaze drifted to the stack of pictures at her side . . . it was interfering with her objectivity.

Noting the lull in Emily's log, Hotch looked over his shoulder to see her staring down at the glossy photographic remains of what was once a golden retriever.

His name was Bernie.

And he had lived with the Cazekas family out on Rural Route 6. He'd been found by the thirteen year old son, Andy when he'd come home from little league practice. And Hotch knew these things because after what had happened with Emily at the makeshift morgue, he had made a point of _consciously_ noting all the little personal details that ordinarily he'd shuffle to the side of his brain.

Though these weren't human victims, Emily did help to remind him that all life was precious, and that there were families . . . children . . . that had grieved these losses.

Children they may very well have to visit tomorrow to ask questions about . . . what were surely (hopefully) . . . the most traumatic events they'd undergone in their young lives to date.

It was only right that Hotch at least knew the name of the pet that they were mourning.

Though he was somewhat worried about the toll those visits were going to take on Emily.

As the children were often the ones that had gone in search of their pets, the children were often the ones that had found this butchery. And of the two of them . . . really of the whole team . . . Emily was the one that children responded to best.

If they did need to conduct any interviews, she would be the one taking point.

"Prentiss," Hotch said softly, and her eyes snapped up.

"What? Oh, uh," she shook her head slightly, "sorry. All right," she cleared her throat, "the next one is the county map, a red flag on Rural Route 6, mile marker 27."

'_Focus Em, you only have a few hours to review this evidence. You can't let your brain wander thinking about the families again.'_

Hotch stared at Emily for a moment longer before he pursed his lips and turned back to the map.

"Red flag, got it."

And on they went. Emily pushed her emotional response to the moment into one of her boxes as she dispassionately called out the flag and the address that went with it. Then Hotch added each location to the street map on the wall. Before they'd even reached the end he could start to see a pattern forming, but he was trying to ignore it.

They didn't have all the facts yet.

When Emily called out the address of the last animal desecration Hotch placed a blue flag on the map before he picked up the box of yellow tabs.

He turned to her.

"And now the arsons."

For a moment Emily stared at the map on the board, her eyes widening slightly in alarm. Then she nodded as she crawled across the mattress, "right, one sec."

"Okay," she picked up the Fire Marshall's report and started scanning the summary page, "the first one was an abandoned property on County Road 37," she pushed herself off the bed and walked over to Hotch, "here," she looked at the report and then back again to the evidence display, "yeah, that looks right."

Hotch placed the yellow flag where Emily put her finger and then he looked back at her.

Her jaw was working nervously as she was stared at the map.

"Prentiss, just because that's the image we're seeing doesn't mean that it's still not a coincidence," he reminded her, "you know your brain attempts to assert patterns to organize the data its seeing." Her eyes shifted up to his as he finished softly, "but that doesn't mean that's what's really there. We need to finish adding in the arsons and then we'll better be able to tell what's probably intentional and what we could be imagining."

She nodded, "I know," she looked back at the array of flags, her brow wrinkling with worry, "I know. But Hotch, that's just . . ." she shook her head, "troubling."

There was a pentagram in front of them.

And devil worship . . . in conjunction with the horrific nature of these mutilations . . . indicated that these animals were most likely sacrifices.

"Well," Hotch tried to push off her concern for the moment, "let's finish up the flags and see where we are then."

She was correct though, if the pattern was what it appeared, then it was indeed troubling.

"Right," Emily tried to shake off her uneasiness as she turned and walked back to the bed, "the next one is," she flipped the page on the Fire Marshall's report, "an abandoned lot on Turner Stre . . ."

Her last word was cut off by a knock on the door.

Hotch's brow wrinkled at the interruption and Emily looked up at him with a frown, "who could that be?"

It was nearly ten and they had the Do Not Disturb out there so housekeeping wouldn't bother them. And that's about all Emily could think of for visitors given that they didn't actually know anyone there.

"I don't know," Hotch put down his pack of flags and walked over to look through the peephole.

His eyebrow quirked up slightly as he saw who was standing there. Then he called back over his shoulder.

"Lorelai."

He pulled the door open and the innkeeper smiled at him.

"Good evening Agent Hotchner."

Though Lorelai had immediately felt comfortable calling Emily, well . . . Emily. This man was way too big bad FBI Guy to be so familiar with him so quickly. Though as she thought about it Lorelai realized that it was unlikely their acquaintanceship would be extended long enough to morph into a "yo what's up Aaron?" Or that other nickname that Emily called him.

Hotch.

Now Lorelai was wondering if that was a little personal thing between them or something everyone called him.

He tipped his head, "Lorelai," he raised his eyebrow as he continued drolly, "was my credit card declined?"

Lorelai laughed but before she could respond Emily called out in surprise from the bed, "Lorelai what are you still doing here? Don't you have a husband waiting for you?"

God, her hours were as bad as theirs were. Though Emily imagined her work was a damn sight more pleasant.

"Hi Emily," she peeked around Agent Hotchner to see her new friend, "Luke's closing up the diner and I already went home to feed Paul Anka so I decided to . . ."

Hotch interrupted in confusion, "I'm sorry, Paul Anka?"

Was he even still alive? And if he was what the hell was he doing in Lorelai's house?

But then Lorelai helpfully explained that Paul Anka was her dog and Hotch felt much better about the condition of the lounge singer.

"Ah," he nodded, "sorry for the interruption. Please go on."

"Well, like I said," Lorelai continued, "Luke's closing up, and the dog's fed and my daughter's out on a date and I've already called and bothered her twice but she's stopped picking up the phone and I was thinking about you guys stuck here working so I decided to bring you some uh," she turned back to the hall and took a silver tray off the cart, "some cocoa."

Then she smirked at Agent Hotchner, "though I didn't really think you were a cocoa kind of guy so I brought you coffee," she tipped her head, "well decaf, which really generally I'm like what's the point, but I didn't know if you drank caffeine this late. I do and Rory does, Rory's my daughter's name but I think I already told you that. So yeah, anyway basically coffee at night is not that common so I figured better safe than sorry I get you decaf and you'll at least have something to drink while Emily's enjoying her fabulous gourmet hot chocolate courtesy of Le Swiss Miss."

After hearing Lorelai's full, one breath of air, ramble about their beverage options, Emily's lips started to twitch as she pushed herself off the bed.

Hotch had to be borderline apoplectic.

And as Emily walked over to the door in her stocking feet it did take all of her self control not to burst out laughing when she saw the nerve twitching over his left eye.

Poor thing.

Figuring it would be best to take over from there, Emily brushed past him as she put her hands out to the tray, "thank you so much Lorelai," she smiled, "that was really nice of you and totally not necessary."

As Emily pushed him out of the way, Hotch suddenly remembered his manners . . . dismissed the momentary belief that Emily had been cloned at birth with her twin dropped in Connecticut as Emily herself traveled the world . . . and immediately reached to take the drinks from the women.

"Yes," he deftly shifted the tray from the innkeeper's hands before Emily could take it, "thank you Lorelai."

"And," Emily piped up as she looked at the two cups, "thank you for bringing him decaf. He's definitely had more than enough caffeine already today."

Hotch rolled his eyes as he turned to put the tray down on the dresser.

"You're not my mother Prentiss," he called back over his shoulder.

Once upon a time he thought he had seen a piece of paper that said she reported to him. Emily apparently had received a reverse set of orders.

The ones which said HE reported to her.

Emily shot him a look, "if she _was_ here your mother would agree that NINE cups of coffee is entirely too much caffeine consumption for one day. You're lucky your heart hasn't beep, beep, beeped itself right out of your chest . . . _SIR._"

The sir was a last minute addition which generally allowed her to boss him around with impunity.

Lorelai started to chuckle as she saw Agent Hotchner shoot Emily an incredulous look.

"Why the hell is my heart going beep, beep, beep?"

Emily's brow wrinkled, "oh right, that's the heart monitoring _machine_. Well," she flapped her hand at him, "whatever, you know my point is valid regardless of the sounds effects I used to make it."

What the hell was the right sound though? Oh yeah . . . she remembered . . . thump, thump, thump.

Hotch stared at Emily without any expression . . . moving past her ridiculous sound effects, perhaps she had a small point about the nine cups of coffee.

And his mother's reaction to that knowledge.

Still though, God knows he couldn't let her know she'd made a valid point. Then she'd feel free to add her two cents into so many other aspects of his life.

More so.

So he flicked his eyes back to Lorelai who he could see was laughing openly at him. But he ignored that because of the gift of hot beverages.

He tipped his head as he walked back to the door.

"Thank you for the coffee Lorelai."

That's really all it came down to. She was being nice and they'd just subjected her to some sort of day player scene from the retirement home.

Next thing he knew Emily was going to be on him about his cholesterol and sodium intake.

Lorelai cheerfully shook her head, "no, no, thanks, I knew you needed to work late and I just wanted to make sure you had everything you might need."

The more she thought about the Michele thing . . . and the more she thought about all the nasty things Michele had said to all of the _other_ guests over the years . . . the worse Lorelai had felt about the whole thing with whatever the hell insult he'd hurled at Agent Hotchner.

That's really what had driven her out of her house and back to the inn. She was just trying to think of some way to make it up to them.

That's how they got the box of petit fours from Sookie too.

Given her own penchant for sweets . . . and fine footwear . . . Lorelai was quite sure that Agent Emily would be appreciative of the pastries.

And she had been.

She'd honest to God squealed, and Agent Hotchner had muttered something about not eating them in his bed. Which had tickled Lorelai at the time, because she'd thought they were really cute together and that definitely seemed to be a confirmation that they were a couple. But now that she'd seen that Emily was sitting on his bed _working_, Lorelai didn't know what the hell was going on with them. Not that it was really any of her business either way.

She was just being a nosy busybody.

Oh God . . . a terrible thought came to her . . . she was turning into Babette! The next thing she knew she was going to start calling people "Sugar" and dressing up her cats in baby clothes! Not that she had cats, not that she was even particularly fond of cats. She had a dog.

Oh poor Paul Anka! That was going to be so humiliating for him riding around in a baby carriage!

"Lorelai, are you all right?"

Lorelai's head snapped up to see Agent Hotchner staring worriedly at her. Then her gaze shifted over to Emily.

Same expression of concern there.

"Uh, yeah, ha!" She barked a laugh, "sorry guys, I'm fine. My brain just started running down a weird road.

'_Way to make an ASS out of yourself in front of the nice FBI Agents Lor!'_

"Anyway," she looked around their room to make sure they didn't need anything, "I guess I'll be . . ."

And then the words caught in her throat as her eyes caught on the photographs on the bed.

'_Oh. My. God.'_

Seeing that their evening's work unfortunately hadn't escaped Lorelai's attention, Hotch and Emily exchanged a quick _'oh shit,'_ glance as they both moved to block her view. Then Emily took a step closer to the other woman, putting her hand on her arm as she asked with concern.

"Are you all right?"

Shit. Hopefully she hadn't seen much. It's not like the photos were posted to the wall, they were flat on the bed so she was getting a downward angle view.

Still though . . . Emily winced as a few images flashed in her brain . . . the angle was bad enough.

"Uh," Lorelai bit her lip as she stared down at the carpet, "is that . . ." she swallowed, "did I just see?"

How could somebody do something like that? Jesus Christ, THIS was their work! No wonder Emily didn't answer her question earlier.

Hearing the horror in her voice, Hotch stepped closer as he said firmly, "Lorelai these aren't things you need to think about. They aren't things you need to see."

He paused for a second before he finished softly, "just try and put them out of your mind."

God, he really hoped they hadn't scarred this poor woman for life.

Lorelai's eyes came back up and locked with his. And she could see then not the professional shield he'd been projecting to her all day, but instead simply . . . kindness.

Compassion.

It made her feel better. It actually made her feel better because whatever she'd just seen . . . whoever had done those terrible things . . . there were people in the world like him and Emily.

Good people.

And they were the ones carrying the guns and the badges.

She blinked and broke her eye contact with him again. Then she cleared her throat, "okay, well, I'll leave you to your work."

Just as she turned away she suddenly remembered something and turned back to him again.

"Wait," she started digging in her pocket, "you wanted some allergy medicine."

"Here you go," she held out a packet of Benadryl which he took from her hand.

Hotch stared at her for a moment longer before he tipped his head, "thank you Lorelai."

And then she stepped out into the hall and he slowly closed the door behind her.

His eyes dropped to the carpet for a moment before Emily said softly.

"At least we hadn't hung the pictures on the board yet."

He looked back at her, then over to the photos on the bed.

"Let's get back to the arsons."

/*/*/*/*/*/

Two hours later Hotch snapped his cap back on his black marker.

Okay, they'd finished the geographic overlay and the basic profile was done. The pentagram was unlikely to have been simply a figment of their imagination. And he could say that because there were two of them, both inverted.

One outlined by the arsons, one outlined by the mutilated bodies.

He didn't believe in coincidences, especially when the overlapping tip of both symbols was the location of the dead HUMAN body.

Emily had been right from the beginning . . . something terrible was going on in this town. Whether or not they had a serial killer, he still wasn't sure. They had evidence of animal sacrifices but no human ones.

Not yet.

That autopsy report had been inclusive, but . . . given its geographic location . . . there was no doubt that the death was somehow significant to the other acts.

"All right," he sighed, "in the morning we'll start talking to the pet owners, and I'll have Garcia run the names, see if any of them have a known connection to the occult. We should start packing up," he moved over to pick up the evidence box.

"Prentiss can you hand me the Fire Marshall's reports? Prentiss?"

Hotch looked over his shoulder to see that Emily had fallen asleep with the autopsy report open in her lap.

His expression warmed slightly as he straightened up and walked over to take the photos off her lap. Then he touched her arm as he said softly, "Prentiss, wake up."

In response she murmured unintelligibly and rolled over.

Great . . . he rubbed his hand across his mouth . . . she was asleep on his bed.

But as he listened to her slightly raspy breathing he remembered that Lorelai had brought up the allergy medicine with their drinks. And Emily had specifically waited to ingest it because she was afraid that it would make her sleepy.

Apparently she was right.

Because she'd just popped the pills in her mouth ten minutes ago and now she was passed out cold. And as proof of that supposition he again tried to wake her up.

This time by rubbing her leg and saying her name more loudly. But all she did was curl further into a protective ball.

For a second he stood there trying to decide what he should do. They had been up for almost twenty hours so screaming in her ear to wake her up seemed rather cruel.

That meant his options were to just leave her where she was and go sleep in her room, or he could pick her up and carry her back where she belonged.

He was leaning towards carrying her next door. But then he suddenly pictured the maneuvering involved in working the locks on two doors while holding her to his chest and he decided to just leave her be.

But . . . his brow furrowed slightly . . . he couldn't just leave her the way she was.

For one thing she was wearing her gun. For another she was on top of the blankets and lying on the very edge of the bed.

In her drugged up state, he had images of her rolling over and falling on the floor. So okay . . . he rolled his neck . . . first things first.

Get the rest of the evidence off the bed.

So he finished scooping up all the photos and incident reports and carried them over to the desk. When he thought she was awake he'd planned on putting everything away tonight. But with her already asleep he decided to just pack them back up into the proper boxes in the morning.

He was much too tired to decide what goes where all alone.

Once that was done he turned back around to see Emily rubbing her eye in her sleep. His lip quirked up slightly . . . Jack did that sometimes.

With that thought his amusement faded as he unexpectedly felt a wave of loss for his boy. It was happening fairly often lately. The same thing had happened when Haley first left him last June, he was going nuts all the time missing his son. And then he'd found a way to deal with that hole in his gut.

But then the divorce . . . the finality of it . . . had uncorked the bottle on those emotions again.

So after a minute of deep breaths while staring at the floor, Hotch felt he'd shoved everything down deep again. At least deep enough to not feel like crying.

And that's really all he was going for.

He walked back over to the bed and slipped Emily's pistol out of its holster and her room key out of her pocket. He placed the first item on the nightstand and the second into his trousers. Then he moved up to pull the blankets down, shaking his head as he saw the chocolate smudge on the bedspread.

_Serves her right having to sleep here now._

After the blankets were pulled back Hotch moved over and placed his arms under Emily's back and legs, pulling her to his chest. And suddenly that wave of loss rose up once more. So for a moment he just stood there, cradling her close as he tried to get his emotions locked back up in the box again.

Holding her like this . . . having some actual physical contact with another person . . . was helping him cope. And because it was Emily, he didn't feel too strangely about holding her this way.

The night in the bathroom had clearly broken down whatever normal intimacy boundaries he'd have with her. This certainly wasn't something that he'd ever even consider doing with another woman that he worked with. But Emily had always been more tactile with him than anyone else would dare to be.

And after the trip to Smokey's last month, Hotch had finally admitted to himself that Emily was about the only person besides Jack that he was completely comfortable with invading his personal space.

Though of course he'd never tell her that.

She'd never adhered to his personal boundaries anyway so God knows what she'd do if she felt that she actually had cart blanche to invade his space whenever she damn well pleased.

He'd probably end up with her . . . well, he was going to say climbing into his bed but given the situation he'd now found himself in, clearly that was a rule that she'd drop kicked to the curb awhile ago.

His expression softened slightly as she murmured something against his chest . . . he couldn't deny that his affection for her was strong though.

Her joke downstairs was quite intuitive . . . she was indeed his favorite. Again, her and JJ both, but he certainly wouldn't feel comfortable holding JJ this way. His relationship with Emily was different.

Still though, he knew that he couldn't very well stand there with her half the night. For one thing, it would be creepy. And for another, well . . . with a sigh he moved over to place her on the mattress . . . she could wake up.

And then he'd have to explain what the hell he was doing . . . and that just wasn't happening.

He'd probably end up getting flustered and yelling at her for falling asleep on his bed. Then she'd get that hurt look and he'd feel like a total jerk for being a fucked up bastard who couldn't have any meaningful contact with another person if he thought for a second that person might be able to reciprocate the action.

So to prevent that cluster from happening . . . these were interpersonal relationship issues he'd deal with eventually . . . he gently tucked her into the bed.

For a second he stared at her clothes, not that he was going to undress her completely, but he was just trying to decide if she had anything on that was going to bother her.

The belt did appear to be cutting into her stomach . . . he huffed to himself as he reached down to unbuckle it . . . too many donuts today. Nobody else on the team would he feel comfortable removing any article of clothing but again . . . he tugged the belt from the loops . . . they'd once passed second base in a public bathroom.

This was nothing.

He placed the belt on the nightstand next to her gun, then he turned back and pulled the covers up to her shoulders. Just before he turned away he saw a strand of hair on her cheek and he brushed it back.

Hotch's brow wrinkled slightly when she started to cough in her sleep, and he pressed the back of his hand against her forehead.

Though he was pretty sure it was just allergies, there was nothing to say that she wasn't actually getting sick.

But no . . . he pulled his hand back . . . she felt cool. So no fever.

As he snapped the table lamp off, Hotch made a mental note to stop into that grocery store in the morning so she could get some _non_ drowsy allergy medicine.

He shook his head as he stepped out into the hall.

'_Her being in a comalike state for the rest of their trip would definitely slow down their productivity.'_

_

* * *

A/N 2: It's funny, I actually wrote in Emily's allergies like 8 months ago and it's a coincidence that they're BRUTAL right now in the NE so I could totally feel her allergy related pain! And the inadvertent passing out from the taking the wrong meds._

_Of course it's just not possible to keep all the story balls in the air at once, but I do have a clear focus now for this story's resolution now. And that's a good thing :) So I think we'll have a teensy bit more momentum than we've had in the past. Though on the flipside, it's going to go a little longer than I'd thought initially but we'll see where we end up. This chapter is the longest of all of them and I think that's, again, because I now know what I want to do with it beyond the relationship building element. Outside of The Snake Pit I've never done anything approaching a case fic, and clearly Snake Pit is very NON traditional for that genre so this will be a tad more conventional in that respect. That said, just having them alone without the whole team dynamic, I thought they'd approach things a little differently. Trying to make the best use of their limited time/resources they come at things a different way. It just seemed more logical._

_This is a good side story for me to explore Hotch's emotional state immediately following the divorce. Again, when I wrote those Girl chapters initially, I was sticking to a canon spin so there wasn't much of the in between. Here I'm trying to dig a little into what he would have been like in his own head. Not yet having the events in NY to cause him to get it in gear and realize he couldn't go on the way he was, alone and miserable. So here he acknowledges that he's really quite F'd and not (at this point) capable of building a meaningful relationship with another person. But that he knows he needs to start dealing with that eventually. And just by virtue of all the things he and Emily went through around the divorce, he'd feel drawn to her but incapable yet of processing what that meant._

_Update to the A/N: Almost forgot to give a shout to Arcadya for use of Smokey's bar. It's been so long since she invented it that it's now stuck in my head so I totally forgot it wasn't a real place in DC :)  
_

_Updates this week in Girl and Making Spirits Bright. Girl might be up tonight but it depends on how the day goes, obviously I do have family stuff :)_


	7. Falling Into the Crevasse

**Author's Note:** I was randomly flipping channels this month and stumbled over GG's very last episode. You know how rare it is to hit the final episode of ANY show you used to watch? It's like looking up and seeing Haley's Comet rolling by. So I decided to stop and watch the whole thing, and that put me in mind of taking a trip back to Stars Hollow again, so here we are :)

**Warning**: In case you've forgotten that the nature of the case their investigating is quite grisly, this chapter will definitely be reminding you of that fact. Also, we do spend a little time in Lorelai's head, so unlike previous chapters, a prior knowledge of the basics of Stars Hollow's physical layout and GG's supporting characters really would be helpful. If you never watched it, wickipedia could give you a little character summary if I mention anyone you don't know. The show has been off the air for a couple of years so I had to go look up a really basic factoid myself.

This picks up the next morning after they figured out the pentagrams on the map.

* * *

**Prompt Set #12**

Show: Happy Days

Title Challenge: It Only Hurts When I Smile

* * *

**Falling Into the Crevasse**

Hotch tapped his fingers on the steering wheel for a moment before turning and looking across the front seat. He was not so subtly attempting to evaluate his agent's mental state after the hellish morning they'd had so far.

And though he was openly staring at her, it bothered Hotch to see that Emily gave no acknowledgment of his attention. Instead her eyes remained fixed out the still closed passenger side window.

When his gaze shifted to see what she was looking at, it immediately lit upon the side mirror where he could see her sadness being reflected back to them.

Feeling a dig in his stomach, Hotch bit his lip as he turned to look back out the windshield again. Directly in front of them was the main entrance of the home that they had just left.

It was a white house with yellow shutters and window boxes full of bright red flowers. The flowers were pretty, and he knew that his mother used to plant them too but for the life of him Hotch couldn't remember what they were called.

It bothered him that he couldn't remember. It seemed important somehow. But still he moved on, his gaze flickering over the welcome mat placed in front of the bright yellow door and the potted plants lining the steps.

Those flowers were nameless to him too.

After his gaze shifted up the stairs again, Hotch's eyes suddenly stopped their assessment of the home, instead locking on the wooden swing hanging down on the side of the wraparound porch. It was painted the same cheerful sunny hue as the rest of the detail work on the house. And right now the wooden structure was swaying slightly in the warm spring breeze.

It was the only thing moving in his line of sight.

Though his inclination was to stare . . . he was afraid to do that. Afraid that the image would burn into his brain. So with the same faint reluctance felt when looking away from a car accident, Hotch tore his eyes away from the swing.

The swing was now best known to those in law enforcement as The Place Where the Basket Had Been Left. And then his vision again took in the house on the whole.

It appeared to be a nice home. It once was a nice home.

Now it was a place where nightmares reigned.

For a few seconds longer Hotch stared out the front window as Emily stared out the side one. And then a dog barked and Emily jumped. It was enough to snap Hotch's attention back to the matter at hand . . . getting the hell out of there. So with a weary sigh, he started the ignition, put the car in reverse and turned to look over his shoulder.

God help them . . . he moved his foot to the gas . . . they still had four more families to visit.

As he backed out of the long dirt driveway down onto the long dirt road, Hotch debated with himself as whether to pull over and make Emily tell him what had happened in her interview with the daughter.

He was about to do it, but then another quick glance in her direction changed his mind . . . no, no it was too soon. She wasn't ready to talk.

His eyes snapped back to the dusty road he'd just turned onto . . . it was obvious that she wasn't doing well though. Of course even from his side . . . just handling the parents at these homes . . . it had been a truly awful morning. And he knew that each consecutive interview with each consecutive crying child was taking a terrible toll on Emily's mental state.

They'd called all eleven of the families first thing in the morning and asked if they could stop by and meet with their children either before or after school.

Most of the parents had said they'd just keep them home.

So they'd started their interviews at seven thirty and it was now almost one, so that was five solid hours of, of . . . he felt an ache in his gut . . . grief. That was the only word for it. It didn't matter that the grief was for a lost pet, it made the emotion no less valid. And it made the experience of immersing themselves in these people's pain no less difficult.

Given that in all of these situations, a few to several months had passed since their animal had been slaughtered, Hotch . . . intellectually . . . had anticipated that on some level these families would have come to terms with what had happened.

He couldn't have been more wrong.

These were raw scabs they'd picked at today. And as they'd gone along he'd come to see that his own somewhat jaded view of the world had tainted his expectations. He was used to dealing with the grieving relatives of dead _people_, so he had thought by comparison that the grief over lost pets would be less . . . less, well, after talking to those families he couldn't pick a lesser word that didn't make him sound like a jerk even if his own head.

The bottom line here was, he'd fucked up. Because though he'd known from the photos and incident reports that these people . . . specifically the children . . . had experienced genuine traumas, what he hadn't anticipated was just how differently the reaction to these traumas would have been than the type that Hotch was used to dealing with.

They hadn't been taken seriously.

They were just dead pets. Pets died all the time. Granted . . . he thought bitterly . . . they weren't usually _shredded_ into pieces in the process, but still, it was a "routine" life experience. So after a couple days everybody else, everybody outside the immediate family, simply . . . forgot. And even within the family, most of these parents didn't have a clue what to do for their kids. If these losses had been human, then the children would have received attention and sympathy and trauma counseling.

That hadn't happened either.

These were not experiences that could simply be forgotten because society expected them to be forgotten. These mutilations had made him and Emily sick! So what the hell had happened to these lay people who had been expected to simply suck it up and forget about it?

Bad things. That's what had happened, bad things. Those wounds had begun to fester and they were clearly leaving marks on these families.

Ugly ones.

They had discovered today that all of the children were having difficulties concentrating in school, their grades had dropped. Many had behavioral issues, nightmares, and clear signs of undiagnosed depression. And as Hotch had expected, Emily's softer touch had been what that these children responded to best, so she was the one that had taken point on probing those still tender . . . still horrifying . . . memories.

Though Hotch felt guilty that she was the one that had received the brunt of the load today, there was no other way to get it done. His jaw started to twitch . . . one thing was clear though, regardless of how bad the rest of those interviews had been, it was definitely that last family . . . that last child . . . that had really put Emily into this state she was in now.

The house they'd just left had been their seventh interview and she had been getting more and more subdued as they finished up with each family. He'd been getting worried, and now she seemed practically catatonic.

Still though, he reminded himself that prior to this last visit, she'd been voluntarily engaging with him as they walked to the car. Asking where next, how many more . . . telling him what she'd learned.

But this last house . . . there was something different here. Emily hadn't spoken a word since she'd walked out of the daughter's bedroom.

And that last family . . . he bit his lip as he turned right and pulled onto the paved road again . . . was the Hendersons.

Daughter Cindy, age seven, had discovered her four month old Labrador puppy dead one day this past March. Her puppy's name had been Ralphie and he'd been cut into quarters, his eyes had been gouged out and a spike had been driven through his head. He'd been left on the family's front porch swing in a picnic basket with a pink ribbon tied on the top.

Cindy thought it was an early birthday present.

According to her parents, even hours after the sheriff had left with the remains, Cindy had still been so hysterical that they'd decided to bring her to the county hospital. She'd been sedated, and kept overnight for observation. And even with the drugs in her small system, she'd still woken up screaming almost a dozen times over ten hours. Night terrors.

Night terrors that continued to this day. Her parents said it was a good night if she could get through three hours of sleep before the screaming began. And she woke up at least three times a night so basically they slept when she slept or they got no rest at all. Her mother had begun to cry when she said that it was living with an infant again.

But one that they had no hope of getting any older.

Basically this family had been living in a special little corner of hell for the last ninety-seven days. And when they'd gone to see them earlier that morning, he and Emily had been shocked to see the streak of white hair on little Cindy's seven year old head.

That had not been in the police report.

And looking back, that should have been Hotch's first clue not to leave Emily alone with her. Whatever evil had touched that house was above and beyond what they'd already experienced that morning.

But unfortunately he had left the two of them alone . . . alone for almost forty-five minutes.

He would have interrupted her sooner but the parents had been desperate to tell him their story, to ask him what they should do. Nobody would help them. Every night their daughter woke up screaming, and every morning she woke up in a pool of her own urine. Prior to Ralphie's death in March, Cindy hadn't wet her bed since she was three.

Now she slept on rubber sheets.

Her parents were at their wits end. The father had been laid off from his construction job just before Thanksgiving, they'd lost their medical insurance three months after that . . . one month before Ralphie was killed . . . and Cindy's emergency room visit and overnight stay at County had eaten up the last of their meager savings. They were surviving on his unemployment checks and the wife's cashiering job at the local supermarket.

These were people that couldn't afford to buy name brand soda let alone send their daughter for the substantive psychological counseling that Hotch knew that she needed if she was ever going to be fully functional again.

And Emily . . . he felt a bitter wave of regret . . . the kindest, most empathetic person he knew, he'd left her alone to bond with a little girl who was so emotionally disturbed that her hair was turning white.

'_Good job Aaron,'_ he thought with disgust, _'real good job!'_

He started chewing the inside of his cheek nervously . . . and if Emily was already this depressed right now, what the hell was it going to do to her if he had to pull the plug on this whole investigation tonight? Ordinarily at least the close of a shitty case would result in some satisfaction.

That they had caught their UNSUB.

Most of the time that was of course a bittersweet satisfaction, but here Emily might not get even that much. Because here the species of their victim pool just couldn't warrant him calling in the cavalry to beat down every door in this small community. And barring a major breakthrough in the next few hours, the odds of them tracking down this UNSUB on their own in the limited time left were 30/70 at best.

At best.

So he needed to do something to pick up her spirits now before she had them crushed completely later.

He cleared his throat.

"I know we were planning on working straight through on these interviews but I think it's time to take a break."

When almost a minute passed where Emily said nothing in response, Hotch continued on as though there had no pause from his previous statement.

"And I think," he put his foot down on the accelerator, "that I'd like to try one of Luke's burgers before we leave so we'll go get some lunch at the diner and then start fresh," he paused before flicking his eyes across the seat, "how's that sound?"

They were a good fifteen miles from the center of Stars Hollow, and he had seen a couple of local roadside places in between, but the diner was the only place that he could think to bring her.

That idyllic little town had done something for her yesterday, and he was hoping that it again might cheer her up today.

But unfortunately the only response he got back from his offer to take her to Stars Hollow was a barely audible, "whatever you want. I'm not hungry," and that's when his mild worry started to morph to genuine concern.

He knew that she was upset but even still, Emily was always hungry. Over a ten hour period yesterday she'd eaten a large cheeseburger plus fries, a bag of potato chips, a Snickers bar, almost an entire bag of donuts, a monstrous three course dinner which had included a stuffed chicken, and then she had polished all of that off with a half a box of frosting laden pastry.

Even with their shit job, by his observations over the last few years, that was still an average food intake for her. So if she was losing her appetite completely, that meant that she wasn't just upset, she was getting genuinely depressed.

And for the moment he could think of nothing else to do for her. So he just shot her one more worried look before putting his foot down a little harder on the accelerator and muttering to himself.

"_I should have sent Rossi and Reid up for this one." _

/*/*/*/*/*/

At 1:16 pm Hotch pulled the rental car up in front of the small market called Doose's. It was the closest open parking spot near the diner, and even though there were many cars parked in the area, he was still hopeful that they were arriving late enough to miss the lunch rush. Given that they were clearly the center of attention yesterday . . . and most likely they would _continue_ to be the center of attention today . . . he'd like to avoid walking into a big crowd in that little restaurant.

Emily was already having a shit day, she'd didn't need to be treated as a sideshow act too.

And as he looked across the seat at her now, he saw that she moving to unbuckle her seat belt, but as he stared at her for a second, she seemed to sense his inquiry, and she stopped, her hand hovering over the button to release the lock. He could see how very carefully she was avoiding looking back over at him.

That didn't prevent him from seeing the glisten in her eyes though.

His stomach started to twist as he undid his own seat belt and then reached across the seat to put his hand on her wrist.

"What did she say to you?" He asked softly.

It was time to find out just how much worse that house had been for her than it had been for him.

Emily swallowed the lump in her throat before her gaze reluctantly shifted up to this man who had always known the exact moment to strike so that he could breach her defenses.

"She said that the bad man was coming back," she responded softly as the tears began to pool, "that's what she dreams over and over, every night for all these months, that the bad man comes back. But . . ."

Emily's voice caught and she stopped, her watery gaze caught in the net of Hotch's gentle one. It was taking everything in her to keep the tears from spilling over. But then she felt the fingers around her wrist tighten before he softly prompted.

"But what Prentiss?"

The cadence of his voice was kind . . . compassionate . . . and Emily knew then that Hotch wasn't asking these questions just in the hopes of learning something more about the case. He was asking these questions so that she would share some of this burden with him.

He was trying to help.

Her eyes dropped down to his tie. It was the one with the red dots . . . she liked that one. A second later she blinked and looked back up to his face, trying to clear the sheen from her eyes.

"But when he comes back," she finished softly, "he does the same thing to Mommy and Daddy that he did to Ralphie. And she finds them in the kitchen, again in baskets with pink bows. And then the bad man comes up behind her and he takes her away," she took a breath, "and he does terrible things to her."

No person, let alone a child, should ever become cognizant of the type of violence that the BAU dealt with on a daily basis. And here this little girl had been exposed to things that even seasoned field agents never saw.

It was a wonder that it was just the one streak of white hair.

And seeing Hotch's jaw clench, Emily bit her lip. "I didn't know what to say," she continued sadly, "so I pulled out my badge and I let her hold it as I promised her that she would be safe and that the bad man wouldn't come back. That I was going to catch him and then he would live in jail where he couldn't hurt anybody ever again," she paused for a moment, "but I was lying to her. I don't know that that we're going to catch him. In fact," she closed her eyes for a moment, "my gut tells me that even if we do, it won't be in time. He's not finished with these families."

Emily shook the sudden flash of terrible images from her head before her eyes snapped back open onto Hotch's again.

"We have to find _something_ Hotch," she pleaded with him, "we can't just leave them like this."

This was hardly the worst case that she'd worked on since she'd been at the BAU, not by half. But she couldn't recall the last time that she'd experienced such a sense of dread.

Usually they were walking into the aftermath of a tragedy, but here it was like they were standing there waiting for the train to hit and choosing not to tell people to get off the tracks. Because after the interviews that morning, there was now no doubt in her mind that whoever had killed those animals would be coming back again. She didn't know how she knew that, she just did. And her experience with intuition was that it was simply her subconscious processing data that her conscious mind hadn't yet filtered.

So she knew that they were missing something . . . and it was something crucial. And as she saw Hotch staring at her, she had a feeling that he knew it too.

"Prentiss," Hotch's voice was kind as he moved his hand down to squeeze her fingers, "I know how hard this morning was, and I know how much you want to help these people. But please don't get your hopes up. Remember that we don't really have a case here yet. So unless we have a major breakthrough you know that most likely we'll be leaving in the morning with nothing more than a box of paperwork that we'll be shipping off to storage as soon as we get back to Quantico."

He agreed that there was something happening in that community, but this wasn't the Wild West. Just because they rode into town with badges and guns didn't mean that they could stay to clean up every mess they found.

It just didn't work like that.

"Yeah," Emily responded to Hotch bitterly as she blinked away the hot tears trying to pool again, "a box of paperwork that we'll be digging out six months or a year from now when the victim pool has morphed from the four legged to the two legged variety," she pulled her hand away from his, "you know as well as I do that this guy isn't going to disappear and go back to just jerking off to torture porn. Not now that he has a taste for the real thing."

Though she knew intellectually that it wasn't Hotch's fault that these terrible things were happening . . . he was the one sitting in front of her. Still, she couldn't deny feeling a stab of guilt when she saw him blink when she shook his hand away.

She'd hurt him.

Feeling a slight sting at her rejection of his support, Hotch stared across the seat, seeing the pain and anger fighting for dominance in Emily's watery brown eyes. As always when he saw her upset, his stomach churned and then he ended up deciding to make a promise that he had no business making.

"All right," he said after a moment, "provided JJ doesn't call today with anything urgent, we'll stay until tomorrow afternoon."

They'd already paid for the rooms tonight anyway, they'd just move back to their departure time.

Seeing Emily's eyes widen in surprise at his announcement, Hotch's gaze shifted over her shoulder.

A woman was pushing a baby carriage on the sidewalk behind her.

"I'm not insensitive to the suffering of these people Prentiss," he said with a slight bit of defensiveness, "and I can see how much damage has already been done here. I also agree that it is unlikely in the extreme that this UNSUB will simply stop hunting. The level and perversity of the violence had already escalated before we arrived so he had to have been honing his technique either on strays or his own family pets. He's also acting out a specific fantasy over and over, and most likely he was watching each of those homes to witness the family's reaction to the quote unquote, "gift" that he left for them."

Hotch's eyes snapped back to Emily's, "so I would agree that, if at all possible, it would be in everyone's best interest to find this UNSUB before he decides to visit anyone else. But Prentiss," he added on a softer tone, "no matter _what_ happens, we can't stay here passed tomorrow. I want to help these people too but I just can't justify the monetary expense or the focus of our combined expertise for what, on _paper_, appears to simply be a series of animal mutilations. There is no proof yet that it's anything more than that. Not only would Strauss have my head for wasting Bureau time and money, but if something urgent broke halfway across the country our absence would slow down the Unit response time," he shook his head, "and I'm not allowing that to happen. So tomorrow afternoon we're handing everything back to the sheriff, we're getting on an airplane, and we're going home, understood?"

Though their morning interviews had uncovered a number of alarming facts that hadn't been in the police reports . . . among them the coordinated baskets and bows . . . that alone wouldn't have been enough for Hotch to extend their investigation an additional ten hours. No, the only reason they were staying through the afternoon was because of his sense of personal and professional responsibility for Emily's well being.

After all, if he was going to force her to connect with these psychologically damaged children, then the very least he could do in return was to make every damn effort to get her a little peace before they left town.

Emily stared at Hotch for a moment before nodding slowly.

"Yeah," she swallowed over the lump in her throat, "understood."

This right here was why she would walk through fire for this man. Even though everything he had just said was him reiterating that this still a local situation, and not yet a BAU matter, he was still letting them stay just a little longer.

And in gratitude for that . . . for continuing to care long past the point where most people would have burned out completely . . . Emily leaned over and pressed a kiss to his cheek. When she pulled back the surprise on his face was evident . . . as was the slight blush climbing his pale skin . . . but she said nothing as she reached over to brush away the faint smudge of lipstick before she snapped back her belt and turned to climb out of the car.

As he watched Emily step into the street, Hotch's hand came up to touch the spot where she'd kissed him. A faint smile passed over his lips as his hand fell back to his side.

'_If he lived to be a hundred that woman would never cease to surprise him.'_

/*/*/*/*/*/

Lorelai slipped her wallet back into her purse as she stepped out of Doose's Market.

Though Luke had told her repeatedly that he'd prefer that she not frequent Taylor's establishment (what he actually said was "no way no how did he want her lining that fascist's coffers with any of our hard earned money") unfortunately that fascist's establishment was pretty much the only game in town.

Of course she would have been happy to appease her husband and travel two towns over to the closest Stop & Shop, but that would have been a solid forty minute errand. So what's a girl to do when she has a Chips Ahoy emergency?

Exactly.

And these cookies really were an emergency pick up. Her mother had decided to book the inn function room for her Daughters of the American Revolution party planning committee that afternoon. They were going to be there for THREE God forsaken hours! So to keep her sanity, Lorelai was downing either a sleeve of Chips Ahoy or a half a bottle of Jack Daniels.

Maybe both. For now though she was starting with the cookies.

However, she had zero desire to get a lecture from Luke on either the evils of processed sugar or Taylor Doose (or both) so Lorelai paused for a moment on the sidewalk so she could jam her yummy blue package into the bottom of her super, colossus, giant oversized purse.

Said super, colossus, giant oversized purse sadly did not actually match her outfit today . . . there was a check/stripe clash thing happening that her mother was guaranteed to comment on . . . but under the circumstances Lorelai was okay with the fashion faux pas.

Her black and white checked mock leather beach bag was simply chosen as a means to transport her cookie contraband safely in and out of both her husband's diner, and her best friend's kitchen.

Though Luke's concerns were for her overall health (and the oft hoped for financial ruination of the Town Selectman) Sookie would shoot her dead on principle simply for bringing a store bought cookie on the premises. So before she took another step, Lorelai made quite sure that the pretty blue package was hidden well beneath all of the rest of crap she was carrying in her bag today.

God forbid she start digging for her lipstick and one of them see what was in there.

Once she was sure that both her marriage and her friendship would survive the afternoon, Lorelai started walking again. But she'd only taken two more steps before catching sight of Emily and Agent Hotchner parked on the corner.

An unexpected treat.

From the angle she was looking, Lorelai thought Agent Hotchner could see her as well as she could see him, so she started to raise her hand to wave hello when she saw Emily lean forward and kiss him.

Oh crap.

Lorelai's arm dropped back down to her side as her eyes snapped passed the car, and over to the gazebo on the square. She was trying not to look like she'd been staring at the couple so now she was pretending like she was watching the picnickers lounging around the carpet of bright green grass.

Whether or not those two were romantically involved . . . it was a cheek kiss so Lorelai really couldn't get a frigging clue there . . . but regardless that was a very personal moment and she didn't want to look all creepy and gross like she was spying on them while they were doing whatever they were doing.

So after she'd paused long enough that her pretend enjoyment of the bucolic spring picnic scene seemed legit, Lorelai turned and started walking towards the diner again.

She'd barely taken another two steps before Emily's door opened and then Agent Hotchner's a second later.

GAH! Lorelai started to panic in her head . . . WHAT TO DO! WHAT TO DO!

The pressure of societal niceties! Should she say hi? Or should she just pretend like she didn't see them at all so they wouldn't immediately figure out how horribly awkward a liar she was when she pretended like she was just noticing them for the first time?

The question was decided for her when she heard Agent Hotchner call out, "good afternoon Lorelai," and she plastered on a quick "surprised" smile as she turned to face the dark haired federales.

"Oh! Hey guys! Fancy meeting you here," she tipped her head up towards the diner, "stopping in for lunch?"

That would be the logical inference given that Lorelai doubted . . . and dear God sincerely hoped . . . that whatever the hell horror show they were looking at last night had absolutely nothing to do with Stars Hollow.

"Ah," Hotch shot Emily a quick look as he stepped up onto the curb next to her, "yes, yes we are." Seeing that Emily was wearing the faint tight smile more commonly found on her face right before they gave a death notification, Hotch realized that regardless of whatever had just happened in the car, she still wasn't back to her normal self again. And that meant that he needed to take point on the conversation. So his eyebrow rose slightly in curiosity as he looked back at Lorelai.

"Is that where you're going as well?" He asked hopefully.

Maybe he could get the other woman to eat with them. It was clear that he needed to get Emily's mind off this case for a little while, and given his generally dour disposition Hotch sincerely doubted that by himself he was up to a full forty-five to sixty minutes of small talk to keep her distracted from the more horrific details of the case.

And he was quite sure that those horrific details were what were rolling around Emily's head right now.

"Yeah actually," Lorelai's fingers drifted over to pat her cookie stuffed bag, "just stopping in for a coffee to rejuvenate before the afternoon," she rolled her eyes, "I'm spending the next three hours after that with my mother and her DAR party planners," she tipped her head, "Daughters of the American Revolution for those of you not from the Planet Emily."

Seeing the strange looks she got from the FBI agents in front of her, Lorelai realized what she'd said and quickly shook her head, "oh no, not YOU _Agent_ Emily, the woman who gave birth to me Emily. My mother's kind of, well, uh," realizing she was about to start rambling on a topic she was quite sure these nice people didn't have any interest in hearing about, she rolled her eyes dismissively, "anyway doesn't matter. Come on," she tipped her head towards the diner, "I'll walk with you."

She took two steps before she shot a grin over her shoulder at the two of them.

"I might be able to rustle up another bag of donuts too."

Hotch's eyes crinkled slightly as he subtly nudged Emily up the sidewalk.

"That would be very nice, thank you. But today we're definitely paying for them."

Lorelai opened her mouth to protest . . . saw the look Agent Hotchner gave her . . . and closed her mouth again. So with a shrug she walked up to the diner.

"If you insist," she held the door for Emily, "but please know it's not necessary," she stepped over the threshold, calling back to Agent Hotchner, "we don't have a local police department so your presence might be the only opportunity we this year to pass out donuts and coffee to the law enforcement descendants of the greatest transvestite that ever lived."

Seeing Emily's mouth twitch slightly at the joke about J. Edgar Hoover, Hotch felt a burst of affection for the local innkeeper. In fact he nearly spun the woman around to smack a sloppy thank you kiss on her. But figuring that her husband . . . who was standing seven feet away . . . probably wouldn't appreciate that, Hotch kept his lips to himself.

Though as Lorelai stepped away to go help Luke clear them a table . . . they were both yelling at some guy named Kirk to get the hell out . . . Hotch did catch Emily's arm, pulling her close to his chest for a second as he pressed his lips to her ear.

"If you'll try and let Lorelai help you find your smile then I promise that I'll buy you your own bag of donuts."

All he wanted was for Emily to try to let Lorelai take her mind off the case for a little while. Given her lack of appetite though, Hotch wasn't sure if the bribe would work. But then to his relief he saw that when she tipped her head back to look up at him, there was a faint bit of amusement in her eyes before she whispered back, "I'll try."

So Hotch rewarded her efforts with a dimple and a sad smile of his own.

"Thank you," he murmured, and then he patted her back as he saw Luke waving them over to the now empty table by the window.

"Now let's go sit down."

_

* * *

A/N 2: I warned you the details were ugly! But really, if they hadn't been ugly they wouldn't have even caught their attention to begin with. It is strange writing such ugly details around such a whimsical little town. I see it kind of like a bright light and the woods around them are darker and more sinister. And they were always hazy on the details of Stars Hollows location, but it was clear in the credit shots it was buried in a more woodsy part of Connecticut. _

_And yes, unless they start finding human bodies, they really do need to go home tomorrow. But Hotch isn't heartless, if they've already paid for the extra night, it's not going to hurt to stay a few hours longer. Especially if they are now starting to pull together a profile. And this is kind of the twist of Emily usually trying to distract Hotch whereas here he's the one trying to not let her dragged down in the darker elements of what they're dealing with._

_Given the case is taking shape, I'd really like to possibly wrap this over the next month (Halloween and all) so I'm going to make an effort to try to do that. Which reminds me, Halloween prompts will be going up next weekend. Last year we put them up early so people would have time to write something if they wanted to. And they previous prompts are still up for grabs so if you're looking to write something "seasonal" the old ones are Bonus #5 on the TV Prompt Forum._

_Next post will most likely be in The Hours, perhaps later tonight, more likely later tomorrow. Allergies are acting up again and I've not been able to write much the last few days. But Fracture has most of a draft done and I'm hoping to get that up before next weekend._

_Thanks for all the feedback this week :)_


	8. Into The Gloaming

**Author's Note**: Still sick, still annoyed by the sickness, but I am getting better, only had to take ONE nap today. Wa Hooh! Yes folks, it's the little victories that mean the most :) Regardless of the viral invaders, I have been plugging away on a few things this week, they just aren't all cleaned up yet. So this is going up tonight, and maybe one more thing before Thursday. More at the end.

FYI: If you aren't aware yet, Kavi and I put prompts up in both forums, both regular and the Christmas ones. And don't forget if you're in a festive mood this week, there are a bunch of Thanksgiving ones out there as well.

This scene picks up about an hour after their arrival at the diner.

**

* * *

Bonus Challenge #21 – Fan's Choice**

Show: Canada's Worst Driver

Title Challenge: A Turn For The Worst

* * *

**Into the Gloaming**

Hotch raised his eyebrow expectantly as Lorelai suddenly pushed back her chair.

"You know what? I think I'll just go grab a flyer for you."

Before Hotch or Emily could respond in any way, Lorelai had stood up and was hurrying off towards the side staircase in the corner of the diner. Hotch watched her go with a faint bit of amusement. Given the topic of conversation before she'd run away, the flyer Lorelai was going to retrieve was apparently a summary of the Stars Hollow festival schedule. He wasn't quite sure what use they'd have for such an item, but he certainly wouldn't be so rude as to ever say such a thing. Especially after Lorelai had been so helpful today with her almost non-stop chatter since they'd sat down at the small table.

The distraction had done wonders for Emily's mood.

Speaking of Emily, Hotch turned back to see his agent was sipping the last of her Diet Coke as she continued to stare at the staircase that their new friend had just run up.

She appeared lost in thought.

And as he took a last sip of his own cold beverage, Hotch made a mental note that this Diet Coke Emily was drinking now, was her second since they'd arrived. And that was on top of the large coffee that she'd consumed prior to the appearance of their sandwiches. She hadn't finished the whole grilled cheese . . . there was one quarter left on her plate . . . but she got damn close. And that was good enough for Hotch. Because the return of Emily's appetite signified to him that she was starting to shake off that depression that had been sucking her down all morning. She definitely wasn't all the way back . . . there was still a faint sadness clinging to her . . . but he was very pleased to see that terrible pall had at least departed. Now, if they could just get through the rest of the afternoon without it returning . . . he put his glass back down on the table . . . all would be well.

And now they really did need to get going before they lost any more daylight, so he started tapping his fingers on the Formica to get Emily's attention. When she looked over at him his digital activity ceased as his eyebrow rose. "I'm going to pay the check and get a coffee to go. Would you like one as well?"

He was assuming yes. Though she probably didn't need anything else to drink . . . or anything else to make her heart race . . . he was quite sure they were going to need the extra burst of energy to keep them going through the rest of their shit day.

"Yes, please," Emily mumbled around her straw, "but just a small, thanks. I'd rather not have to ask anybody to use their bathroom."

Hotch nodded across the table, "okay," but he made no move to stand up. Instead for a moment the two of them just looked at one another. It was a silent conversation but Emily knew what he was asking. And seeing the faint twinge of worry still twitching in his brow, for his sake she tried to brighten her mood.

"And maybe those donuts you mentioned," she asked with a little smile. "I think I held up my end of the bargain. I've earned my bag."

Though she wasn't sure if her newly found smile . . . or her appetite . . . would hold up through another three to four hours of discussion regarding mutilation, castration and dismemberment, she knew this donut agreement meant something to him, so she was going to choke one down if it killed her.

Hotch stared at Emily for a second longer before his brow quirked up slightly and he started to stand.

"I'm not sure if that smile's good enough to warrant me purchasing a whole bag of donuts," he replied seriously. And then as he hoped, he watched as the smile in question spread a little further across Emily's face.

"How's this one?" She asked with a smirk and he tipped his head.

"Better. That'll get you three quarters of your own bag, and between that and the full bag I'm getting for the two of us, you should be rolling in sugar until we get home."

Seeing Emily chuckle quietly at the joke, Hotch rewarded her with a half a dimple. Honestly he was thrilled to death to see that her smile had indeed returned. It was still small, but she was doing light years better than she had been a mere sixty minutes ago. And because of that he couldn't stop himself from reaching across the table to give her a little pat of support. Then he realized that he was starting to feel a bit schmaltzy . . . he could really use a nap . . . so he turned and hurried up to the counter before he ended up doing something incredibly out of character like pulling her into a full bear hug or something.

Bleh . . . he shuddered to himself . . . now that would be embarrassing.

Emily's amused gaze followed Hotch across the small room, but then her smile began to fade as she saw that he was no longer paying her any direct attention. His focus had moved on to getting Luke away from the customers in the corner and back up behind the counter.

He was going to be a few minutes. And though the smile she'd given him had been genuine, Emily couldn't deny that she still wasn't feeling very cheery. Still though . . . she rolled her neck . . . she didn't want Hotch worrying about her when there were so many other things to worry about. Yes, the case sucked, yes, it was depressing as hell, and _yes_, she really would rather rip out her fingernails one by one than spend the rest of her day cramming her brain with additional fodder for her regular nightmares. But all of that crap was part of her job, and she'd find a way to deal with it.

She always did.

Today had just unexpectedly thrown her for a loop. But she really was feeling better now. Not all better, but the break had certainly helped . . . she reached over to pick up Hotch's nearly empty (very cold) cup of leftover coffee. But it wasn't just the break itself that had made the difference . . . she took a sip . . . it was simply getting out of those houses and coming back to Stars Hollow that had really been the best thing for her. Because she'd come to see that this quaint little town was so far removed from the realities of Emily's own world that it was impossible to believe that she was still visiting the same planet. But that in and of itself was what had helped to reset her day. It was the reminder the darkness they were wading through today wasn't all consuming.

The sun still shone brightly in other parts of the world.

Of course the specific company they'd had at lunch had helped as well. And spotting Lorelai coming back down from the staircase, Emily's lip quirked up slightly. As she had suspected he would, Hotch had convinced Lorelai to sit with them while she had her coffee. And as soon as they were seated he'd asked the innkeeper to tell them a little about the town and it's history. And that of course had been enough for their loquacious new friend to keep Emily distracted for the entire meal.

So after nearly an hour of hearing about jack o'lantern festivals and snowman building contests and a somewhat antiquated . . . though still very sweet . . . tradition of having a man bid on a woman's picnic basket to get a date, that was enough to remove Emily's remaining thoughts from the darker elements of the human condition. Though she'd be thrilled to wrap this case, she couldn't deny that she was also going to be a bit sad when they left this town. It was really nice here. And someday . . . her eyes crinkled slightly as Lorelai dropped back down into the chair across from her . . . she might like to come visit again.

"Got it!" Lorelai yelled as she triumphantly slapped the piece of goldenrod down on the table. "The full listing of all officially sanctioned Stars Hollow festivals," she flipped over the sheet and pointed to the bottom, "you can see that we're now up to fifty-seven."

Emily's eyes popped. "A YEAR?" she asked incredulously as she took the sheet from the other woman's hand. "But that's more than one a week!"

Lorelai tipped her head, "well, they aren't all annual, some are centennial anniversaries or you know celestial happenings like known comets or meteor showers or whatnot that at one time or another the town decided to celebrate whenever they roll around, but yeah," she huffed a little sheepishly, "the count's still up there."

As much as Lorelai herself loved all of the festivals, they did seem on the whole a little bit ridiculous when trying to explain the workings of Stars Hollow to an outsider. Especially explaining them to people like Emily and Agent Hotchner, people who clearly had Very, (capital V), serious jobs.

Lorelai bit her lip as she looked at Emily reading over the list between them . . . this really must all seem rather silly to them. Still though, they'd been very polite as she'd run down the high points on the Dummy's Guide to Stars Hollow Living.

Actually . . . her brow wrinkled slightly . . . they were more than just polite, they'd genuinely seemed interested in what she was saying. Both of them of them had been asking questions throughout the meal. Though surprisingly . . . well, surprising given Lorelai's observations of his otherwise taciturn behavior . . . Agent Hotchner had initially been the most vocally intrigued of the two.

But as she thought about it now . . . Lorelai's jaw twisted slightly as she stared at the woman in front of her . . . there might have been a good reason for that unexpected role reversal. Emily had seemed a bit down, like there was something bothering her.

And that in turn seemed to be bothering him.

In fact as she looked across the room, Lorelai saw Agent Hotchner sneaking a glance back to the table. And that's when Lorelai realized that he was still keeping an eye on Emily even from the counter.

Huh.

That probably meant that whatever was bothering her was serious. So even though Lorelai knew it was really none of her damn business, she decided to inquire anyway.

"Can I ask you a question?" She asked softly.

Emily eyes snapped up from the festival list.

"What? Oh, uh, sure." She tucked her hair back behind her ear, "what is it?"

"Are you all right?" Lorelai leaned forward slightly as she tried to ask her question as quietly as possible, "I mean I know that we don't know each other very well and I don't want to pry but, you seem kind of uh, down today."

'_And Agent Hotchner can't keep his eyes off of you,'_ was the thing that she kept to herself.

For a moment Emily stared back across the table, debating as to how to answer the question. She didn't want to lie and say that Lorelai was mistaken, that she was just fine. It was clear that she wasn't just fine. But obviously she wasn't going to discuss today's interviews with this nice lady either. So she settled for just the basics.

"I am a little down today. I'm not going to explain exactly what we do, but I'll say that our work is not fun," she rubbed her hands together, "ever. But some days are better than others, and well," she took a breath as she shook her head slowly, "today is just not a good day at all."

Lorelai stared at her new friend for a moment before reaching over to pat her arm. "I'm sorry to hear that," she said sympathetically, "but I guess based on those photos I saw last night, not good days would be an occupational hazard."

Her eyes crinkling slightly, Emily gave Lorelai a sad smile, "they are. And I am so sorry that you saw those photos. If you can believe it, that's just a small piece of what we deal . . . with."

Realizing she was starting to share too much, Emily suddenly shook her head, "anyway," she gave Lorelai a tight smile, "we deal with it."

Though it would be nice to have a sympathetic ear right now, it wasn't appropriate to reach out to Lorelai that way. Her behavior reflected on Hotch, so she needed to project a professional image of the Bureau for his sake. And God knows that bitching and moaning about her crappy job to a member of the public that she was sworn to protect wasn't very professional.

Seeing that Emily was starting to look a bit uncomfortable talking about her work, Lorelai took the hint and wrapped up any further direct inquiries there. Instead she just gave Emily a supportive smile before her gaze shifted up to the counter where Agent Hotchner was talking to Luke. Still staring at the two men she asked quietly.

"And how's your boss doing on this not good day?" Her eyes snapped back to Emily's, "I was little surprised at how much more sociable he was at lunch than he was when I saw him yesterday."

Though she had observed that the two of them seemed to be quite private people, Lorelai still thought that her comment was innocuous enough . . . just a simple social inquiry . . . so she was very surprised to see Emily's eyes start to glisten for just a second before she blinked the tears away.

If Lorelai hadn't been looking right at her she would have missed them.

"He's being a sweetie," Emily said softly as her eyes drifted over to the counter, "he takes good care of me. Us. Our team I mean," her lip quirked up slightly as her gaze snapped back to Lorelai's, "he's a great boss."

Great boss, great person, great big cranky bastard. With Hotch you got a hard shell with a soft, sweet center.

He was kind of like an M&M.

Lorelai's jaw started to twitch as she saw Emily's expression soften. And that's when she saw her opening to get a straight answer once and for all as to whether or not the two of them were involved.

But then she debated with herself for an additional two seconds trying to decide just how nosy she should be given that these people were complete strangers barely thirty-six hours ago. Then she figured what the hell, the worst thing that could happen was Emily would tell her to mind her own damn business. So she leaned forward again, this time making doubly sure to keep her voice down . . . Agent Hotchner seemed the type to have eagle ears . . . and whispered.

"I know this is totally out of line, and feel free to tell me to mind my own beeswax, but are you two a couple or what?"

"Us?" Emily asked in surprise as she looked across the table, "me and Hotch, together? Oh no," she shook her head, "we're just uh . . . friends."

That wasn't the exact truth . . . hence the hesitation . . . but it was close enough. After everything they'd gone through together their bond was greater than simple friendship. But on the other hand, they didn't share details of their personal lives like regular friends, so in that way the term was even less apt. But by either interpretation, the word seemed the most appropriate term for the situation.

"Really?" Lorelai had picked up on the slight hesitation and her eyes began to sparkle. Then she decided to dig another shovel of dirt out of the hole.

"Just friends, huh. That's too bad. He's pretty cute, and I noticed yesterday that he's got those dimples," her eyebrow went up, "it seems a shame to let dimples like that go to waste."

At first Emily chuckled at Lorelai's inner yenta coming out, but then suddenly she flashed on the few kisses . . . chaste and otherwise . . . that she and Hotch had shared over the last six months. And then she felt a faint blush hit her cheeks as she huffed in amusement.

"Yes, that is true," her mouth quivered, "Hotch does indeed possess a fine set of rarely seen dimples, and yes it is also true that dimples or no dimples, he is very attractive."

Seeing the look Lorelai gave her, Emily added on a smirk. "But those are simply empirical statements of fact," she tipped her head as she added firmly, "_nothing_ more."

With twitching lips, the two women stared at each other for a moment before Lorelai sat back in her seat with a snort.

"Sorry, for trying to play matchmaker," she said with a sheepish grin, "but my best friend and I are both married with kids and, well," she rolled her eyes, "my best friend is about my only friend, besides Luke of course, so I don't really have much in the way of normal attractive people to play k-i-s-s-i-n-g with anymore," her nose wrinkled up, "actually, since Kirk got married I don't even have _not_ normal _un_attractive people to play k-i-s-s-i-n-g with anymore. With the exception of Taylor, whom Luke is convinced is an asexual pod person cast off by a race of evil alien overlords who decided to dump their trash here."

Seeing the raised eyebrow she received from Emily, Lorelai clarified with a flap of her hand, "by Luke's explanation it's kind of like the cosmic version of the British shipping all of their undesirables off to eighteenth century Australia. And lest you think my husband is a complete nut job, please note he's only discussed this asexual castoff, alien overlord theory with me when he's had a few too many Miller High Lifes and he's waxing poetic. And now I've just shared WAY too much information. So anyway," she cleared her throat, "where was I before I started violating the marital covenant?"

"Taylor, asexual pod person, evil alien overlords, Australia," Emily replied with succinct amusement. She was really starting to wish that Lorelai lived closer. And she was also trying to think of just how best to thank Hotch for getting Lorelai to sit and eat with them even though she only came in for coffee.

This kind of conversation was exactly what she needed.

"Oh yeah, right, right," Lorelai nodded, "so yeah, with the exception of THAT, pretty much everyone else I know in Stars Hollow is paired off right now. Even Miss Patty's onto live-in house boy number six. Which leads me back to you and Grumpy Two," her lip curled slightly as she finished up, "I'm just bored and nosy."

Emily laughed softly. "It's really okay. At least you picked out a decent catch for me. Because trust me, I certainly could, and _have_, done much worse than Hotch."

The words had barely passed her lips before she heard, "much worse than Hotch, what?" as the man himself walked up to the table.

As Hotch looked quizzically between the two women, they exchanged a quick pink cheeked glance before Lorelai piped up a bit too loudly.

"Luke. I was just making a comment about the similarities in your disposition. Emily was defending you."

Hotch's eyebrow inched up slightly when he saw their matching flushed cheeks . . . he knew a complete bullshit answer when he heard it. But as he looked back down at Emily he saw her looking up at him with a familiar grin. It was a grin that had driven him crazy more than once over the years.

But seeing that grin today made him very happy.

So whatever it was on the conversational agenda . . . even if it was him . . . that was okay. Lorelai had clearly found something that brought Emily's smile back again full force. So he chose to play along, tipping his head to her as he responded drolly.

"Thank you so much for appointing yourself as my defense counsel Prentiss. When we get home I'll have esquire added to your business cards. Now, I have one point seven five bags of donuts in my hand, so are you ready to go?" He waved the bags in front of her, "or are you and Lorelai planning to continue this round of Perry Mason?"

Emily's lips twitched at Hotch's dramatics as she pushed her chair back. "We're done," her gaze shifted over to Lorelai as she pushed her chair back, "I guess we might see you later tonight."

"Yeah, absolutely," Lorelai smiled as she too stood up, "we have a class reunion due to start arriving tomorrow afternoon so I'll be at the inn late. When you guys are done playing cops and robbers you can help me calligraphy name tags."

"Yes, well," Hotch cleared his throat as he handed Emily the coffees so he could dig out his keys, "we'll certainly keep that in mind as a Plan B if the investigation doesn't go well. Now," he tipped his head, "have a good day Lorelai." And he saw Lorelai wave cheerfully as she called out, "bye guys." Then he saw Emily raise her free hand as she said quietly, "it was really nice talking to you."

Seeing the soft smile on Emily's face as she said her goodbyes to Lorelai, Hotch started to think that letting her help the other woman with the decorations tonight might actually be just the destressor that she needed after they were done with the rest of the interviews they needed to do that afternoon. So after his own departing gesture . . . he settled for a simple head tip . . . Hotch started guiding Emily towards the door with a whisper in her ear.

"When we get back to the inn tonight I think you really should sit with Lorelai for a bit while she does her decorations."

Though he knew that Lorelai was joking about the name tags, therapeutically, it would be good for Emily to spend a little more time with her doing something mindless. It would help clear her head before bed.

A bit surprised at his suggestion, Emily tipped her head back to look up at Hotch. And seeing that little worry twitch was back in his eyebrow again, she dug down beneath her remaining melancholy and tried to pretend like it was a normal day.

"Oh," she said with feigned ignorance, "did you want me to make you a calligraphy name tag, sir?"

As Hotch stared down at Emily she looked back up at him straight faced. It was clear what she was doing, and if she was up for her usual ball busting then that meant that she was indeed feeling even better than she had been before. So he played his part as expected, rolling his eyes as he pushed her out the door.

"Yes, Prentiss," he muttered with mock irritation as they stepped onto the landing, "I want you to make me a calligraphy name tag."

"Thought so," Emily said with wink before she started down the sidewalk.

Hotch looked after her for a moment before a faint smile touched his lips. It was gone as quickly as it came, then he shook his head and jogged to catch up to her.

'_Time to go back to work.'_

/*/*/*/*/*/

Hotch stopped short, his brow wrinkling slightly as he tipped his head to look out the windshield.

"Are you sure it's this one?"

They'd just reached the very end of a very long . . . very isolated . . . dirt road. There was just the one house off to the side left and then woods.

Lots and lots of woods.

Emily looked down to the case file in her hand and then back to the post just in front of the house. The light was fading . . . as was the paint the numbers were written in . . . but she could still easily read the address.

"Yep," her eyes began to rake over the dilapidated structure, "107 Pearberry Lane, this is it."

She knew why Hotch had that tone of disbelief. From the outside, this house just didn't seem to fit with what they'd come to expect to find today. The other homes were all well maintained and gave off an aura . . . though not of prosperity . . . but at least of a comfortable standard of living.

The working class middle class.

But these people . . . Emily started chewing her lip as her brain began to whir . . . these people were poor. And that old Sesame Street standard, _'one of these things is not like the others'_ was currently racing through her mind. It was starting to cause a little tickle of excitement.

This could be a breakthrough.

She looked across the front seat.

"You think it means something?" She asked Hotch hopefully. But for a second he didn't answer, he just continued to look out the windshield at the peeling paint and overgrown lawn. Finally his gaze shifted over to hers and he nodded slowly.

"Probably," he tipped his head towards the file, "what number were they on the list?"

This was the third home they'd visited since they'd left the diner. But with the exception of the first family they'd gone to see that morning which had suffered the first mutilation . . . history indicated that there was often a personal connection to the first victim of any serial offender . . . their visits that day had not been in chronological order based on victimology time frame. Really, given their workload and the limited number of hours in the day, they'd just been moving from house to house based on geographical proximity.

"Um," Emily started flipping through the pages in her lap, "they were number three. Family name St. Clair, back in November, on the tenth, they lost a grey tabby named Shadow. It was found by the fifteen year old daughter, Danielle."

"Right," Hotch cut in as he nodded, "I spoke to the mother this morning and she said Danielle, she called her 'Dani' was home sick this week. That she had the flu and that we could come by anytime." He looked back at the house, "anything else pertinent in there?"

"Prentiss?"

When Hotch got no response after his second request, he turned to look at Emily . . . she was staring at her phone. His brow went up.

"What is it?"

"What?" Emily's head snapped up, "oh, sorry." She moved her cell over so he could see what she was looking at, "look here," she tapped the magnifier, "this is the picture I took of the geographical overlay. Now," she pointed, "look at the tip on the mutilation pentagram. That's this . . . this . . ." she paused for a second, "house. You know what?" She looked over excitedly, "I think that might mean something. The points I mean, we know they all relate to the elements but I don't remember what the bottom one is on an inverted pentagram."

Earlier it seemed enough to simply know that the points were elements, it hadn't occurred to her until they saw this home that was a total mismatch to the others, that the elements themselves . . . who was assigned what point . . . might have some significance as well. And she knew from his slight grimace of disgust that thought hadn't occurred to Hotch either. But she saw that he was all over it now, as he had already pulled out his own phone before she'd even finished speaking.

"Hold on," Hotch hurriedly opened a browser and started typing. A second later his jaw twitched right before he turned to share what he'd learned with Emily.

"An upright pentagram signifies the dominance of the divine spirit on the lower nature of Man. Conversely, an upside down pentagram represents the submission of the spirit to matter and the submission of man to his lowest impulses."

Hearing Hotch read those words aloud, Emily felt her excitement morph to the first tickle of fear on the back of her neck. And there was a moment of silence before she cleared her throat a bit too loudly.

"Okay, so to our UNSUB, then this house that we're sitting in front of right now," her voice dropped as she looked nervously out the side windows to the falling darkness, "represents the worst of the worst of mankind."

And that would be saying something given the atrocities that the UNSUB _himself_ had committed. Moments like this . . . moments where she could feel all the little hairs on her arm begin to rise . . . were where the intestinal fortitude portion of her job description really came into play.

This was a career choice that definitely did keep the blood pumping.

"Yes," Hotch nodded slowly as his gaze shifted back out the front window, "I think given how deliberately the pentagrams were formed, that would be a sound inference." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Emily stare at him for a moment. And then she asked with a touch of apprehension. "Okay then, what now?"

Though the question was expected, for a moment Hotch didn't know what to say. This was the breakthrough that they'd been looking for, but as he watched the shadows creeping across the landscape he was unsure of what to do next.

Even though these people's names were technically still listed under the victim column, now that they'd made this unexpected . . . disturbing . . . connection, those same names also had a question mark to them. What had these people done to their UNSUB? It had to have been something pretty God damn notable to warrant this special place of honor on his work of art.

'_Or maybe they'd done nothing_,' he reminded himself. Maybe their transgressions were nothing more than illusions of cruelty born solely from the depths of an extremely disturbed mind. That was quite plausible, because there was no doubt that the mind in question was indeed extremely disturbed.

Somehow though, as they sat there in the gloaming in front of this rundown structure out in the middle of nowhere, Hotch had a feeling that these people did indeed have some secrets to hide. And regardless of whether or not those secrets rose to the level of sin, he was starting to feel extremely uncomfortable at the amount of exposure they had sitting out in the front yard like this. Though he knew that their investigative window was beginning to close . . . thirty-six hours and counting . . . the idea of simply waltzing up to this family's front door and knocking was starting to sound like an extremely unwise course of action.

They were out in the country with no back up and the sun was going down. If something happened, if for instance it turned out that somebody in this house . . . or somebody in these woods . . . was the somebody that they'd been looking for the last twenty-four hours, he and Emily were not at all in an ideal situation for clean capture.

He could see things going downhill very quickly.

And at that thought Hotch suddenly flashed back on the night that JJ and Reid had knocked on the wrong country door and his course of action was made without another moment's hesitation. His hand immediately moved back to the gear shift.

"We're leaving," he said firmly as he shifted to reverse, "we're going back out to the main road, we're calling the sheriff and we're asking him to meet us here with at least one other deputy." He turned to look over his shoulder as he took his foot off the brake, "I don't know that these people have done anything wrong," the car began to slowly roll backwards, "but given these new developments I do think that it would be wise to have backup before they're questioned. Also, call Garcia. Have her run their names again ASAP, this time I want a full background check, every skeleton in the closet."

Earlier they'd just had the names run for any occult connections or obvious criminal or psychological issues. Now he needed her to break into every system that she wasn't supposed to have access to and find out why this house had been chosen the tip of the pentagram.

Hearing Hotch's plan of action, Emily let out a sigh of relief . . . given the mutilation images floating in her brain, she really had not wanted to knock on that door without backup. Fortunately as usual lately she and Hotch were on exactly the same wavelength. And as she started fumbling for her phone again she nodded her firm assent to his decision.

"That all sounds good to me. Now," she glanced at the dashboard clock before her eyes snapped back to the windshield, "I just hope that Garcia's not sitting in traffic on her way home or else we'll have to wait unt . . ."

Then her voice trailed off as a surge of adrenaline shot through her body . . . the downstairs curtains had just moved.

"Hotch," she whispered as the fingers on her free hand clamped down on his thigh, "somebody's watching us."

Though it was perfectly understandable that the occupants of the house would be curious about who was in their private access road, at present this perfectly understandable behavior was creeping the hell (aka scaring the shit) out of her.

"That's okay Prentiss," Hotch pressed his foot down a little further on the accelerator, "in a second there won't be anything left to . . . oh shit."

As he slammed on the brakes, Emily whipped her head around to look behind them, "what's the matter?"

As soon as she saw what Hotch just had, her eyes widened in alarm . . . oh shit indeed. Somebody had just turned onto this dead end . . . one lane . . . private road.

They were boxed in.

And with the cloud of dust rising up Emily could see that the vehicle was coming at them at a good clip. So fast in fact that the half mile distance between them was rapidly disappearing. Just as she made out the shape of a pickup truck Emily suddenly realized that if she could see him then he could them. And that's when her terror spiked out of nowhere.

OH JESUS!

She started frantically smacking Hotch's arm as she screamed.

"HOTCH! HE'S GOING TO RAM US!"

* * *

_A/N 2: Writing this now, moving in the case fic elements of the story again, I'm starting to feel a little sad I don't have more wiggle room to write Hotch and Emily out in the field back when they were at this stage in their relationship. But this section of Girl proper was mostly working on the chapter per episode principle so I didn't have much in the way of time to work in any cases of my own design. But maybe after this one's wrapped (and we're getting close) I'll see if there's any other point in the spring pre 'Hotch Goes Boom' that I could send them off (perhaps with the team) on a regular case fic. That's just not my bread and butter but I'd probably feel more comfortable writing one if I was in a 'safe' world. _

_I kind of wish I could move Lorelai and Luke down to Virginia because I do think she'd make a nice friend for Emily here in this world, but alas, they're small town folk. _

_So yeah, little twist there at the end! I had to do a bit of research on the inverted pentagrams and let me say, there are a lot of disturbing satanic images out there when you take the filter off the google results! But actually I need to give full props and credit to a particular website for the little definition that Hotch reads off the browser right above because I got that definition right from them and it was so well phrased as it was, I didn't even make any effort to rewrite it. So that was actually the '' a bunch of conspiracy theory folks who unwittingly helped a sister out :)_

_Juggling so many things right now but I will get another chapter up here by Christmas. I'm not sure if that will be the last one, but we're getting close. And I've got a nice super long weekend coming up with the Thanksgiving holiday so hopefully I'll get a few things polished and up for your viewing pleasure :) I promise that Fracture is on the short list. _


	9. And Round and Round We Go

**Author's Note: **Back in Stars Hollow again! Or here, more specifically, a couple miles down the road. I was honestly SHOCKED to see that I haven't updated this since November 2010. I have no idea where time goes, but it definitely goes much too quickly and with very little fanfare. And it wasn't purposeful to put it aside this long, just happened. But last weekend all the little images to wrap this suddenly began playing in my mind, so here we are! And let this give hope to all of you still waiting on Gingerbread! See, my muses don't abandon anything, but sometimes it just takes a while to circle back around again :)

You'll probably have to go reread the last chapter, and we're picking up immediately from there.

* * *

**And Round and Round We Go**

"HOTCH! HE'S GOING TO RAM US!"

Before Emily had even finished her sentence, Hotch had already slammed the car into reverse. Then his foot was pressed to the floor as he twisted around and began peeling backwards down the road.

"Do _not_ fire unless you have a clean shot," Hotch hissed as Emily yanked her weapon from her holster, "we only have one spare clip each."

And this was how a perfectly benign situation went completely to SHIT in a matter of seconds! A simple house to house and now they're being run down by Christ only knew who! And whoever _was_ driving the pickup . . . the glass was tinted . . . was roaring up on them for all of one of those demonic vehicles out of a Stephen King novel.

And as they sped backwards, to Hotch's chagrin, dirt from both vehicles . . . he knew that they were almost kissing bumpers . . . was flying up and blowing into the open windows.

It was half blinding him with the dust settling into his contacts.

But fortunately for his vision . . . and his driving . . . it took only seconds before they were barreling back into the clearing that ran the expanse in front of the decaying house. And not really having any maneuverability at all . . . he was still going in reverse and the house and the surrounding forest were boxing them in on three sides . . . Hotch tried jerking the wheel to the left to spin away from the truck.

The move wasn't successful.

The pickup rammed their back left corner, and Hotch cursed as they were shoved back towards the far tree line.

If they were rammed into the forest, they were screwed.

"Send this address to the team with a 911 on it!" He yelled to Emily over his shoulder, "and then I'll line you up to go for the tires!"

As he saw Emily scrambling for her phone, Hotch did a half assed J turn, shifting from Reverse to Drive as he zagged the car to the right.

Then he swerved again, this time barely missing the truck's grill . . . but he did end up bouncing over a piece of junk lying in the yard.

He was pretty sure it ripped off the muffler.

Basically . . . he grunted as a lawn gnome bounced off the hood . . . he was down to doing a lot of donuts trying to get around the pickup and back to the road.

But the truck was considerably bigger than them . . . at least an F2 . . . and so far he'd been blocked move for move.

"Okay!" Emily yelled as she finished tapping out a one handed SOS to the group list, "sending right . . ." her finger dropped onto the green button, "NOW!"

Obviously ordinarily a regular 911 call would do, but they weren't exactly in a metropolis.

Christ, their team was bigger than the ENTIRE sheriff's office! And that was the only law enforcement game for miles around.

And also . . . Emily winced as their car was rammed again and the phone went flying into the dash . . . the sheriff and his deputies didn't deal with the type of people that they dealt with day in and day out. The team would contact not only the sheriff to get them some immediate backup, but also the nearest field office to get them the type of support that they truly needed.

And at the moment that was the kind that showed up with semi-automatic weapons.

But in the meanwhile . . . Emily sucked a breath as she slid the safety off her pistol . . . time to try to even things up a bit.

"LEFT!" She yelled to Hotch as she leaned out the window.

As the car swerved again . . . for just a second . . . the whole front right end of the pickup suddenly appeared in front of her.

She fired twice towards the tire. One bullet clearly nicked the rubber . . . the other ended up in the door.

Damn it . . . she cursed to herself . . . with them spinning like a top, there just wasn't the stability for any decent aim.

It was like trying to hit a target while riding the teacups at the local fair.

Still though . . . Emily spit a strand of hair out of her mouth . . . there were always points for trying. So as Hotch spun them around a rusted wheelbarrow, she risked one more bullet.

This time aiming dead center into the darkened windshield.

Though she wasn't actually _trying _to execute the unseen driver . . . hence aiming for the center of the glass rather than the left side . . . she didn't much care if she did. When people tried to kill her and her team, she tended to not give a shit whether or not they survived the attempt.

She was funny like that.

And fortunately the shot through the windshield was enough to get the other driver to swerve, but it wasn't a long enough serve for Hotch to make a move around the pickup. And as the driver regained control of the truck, it was obvious that she had pissed him off.

He was now coming at them at breakneck speed.

And the grill was racing right towards the passenger's side of their rental car.

"HOTCH!" Emily screamed as she braced herself for impact/a lifetime of paralysis.

But then suddenly they were roaring backwards. The truck still rammed into them . . . but thanks to Hotch's defensive moves . . . the impact was focused on the engine block, rather than the passenger block.

If they'd had the time, she would have kissed the man who kept her out of a wheelchair.

So even though the hit was hard and spun them halfway around . . . the seat belt was slicing painfully into her flesh . . . Emily was just grateful that her injuries seemed to be confined to some minor whiplash and faint nausea.

And then for a split second . . . when they stopped spinning . . . she thought that maybe they had a shot at escape. The front end of the car was facing towards the dirt road.

And the truck . . . for the first time . . . wasn't blocking their path.

Please God . . . she prayed . . . just a little break here. That's all I'm asking.

But apparently God was busy with other things . . . or perhaps he just didn't care to get involved, because when Hotch shifted gears again . . . nothing happened. All Emily heard was his cursing and a screeching sound as smoke began to rise off the right front wheel well. They weren't moving.

Something must have bent with the last hit.

FUCK!

Just as Emily processed just how bad that was . . . they were sitting ducks . . . Hotch was grabbing her and covering her upper body with his as he screamed.

"HEAD DOWN PRENTISS!"

That was the last thing that Emily heard before the track slammed into them again. The jolt was horrendous. And then were was nothing but the terrifying shrieks of metal crunching and glass breaking.

They were flipping over . . . and over.

Once . . .

Twice . . .

Oh Jesus . . . she bit back a scream as a branch knifed through the window, just missing her eye . . . please let it STOP!

But it took another half a roll before that happened. And based on the pain in her bones . . . and the angle she was hanging at . . . Emily realized that they had bounced into a tree.

And that they were upside down.

Mostly.

"Are you okay?"

Hotch's breath was hot and ragged in her ear. And Emily tried to nod as she fumbled her arm out to dig her fingers into his thigh.

"Yeah." She sucked in a shallow breath as he slowly disentangled himself from her body, "I think so," she did a quick physical assessment of her body, "everything hurts but I don't think anything's broken," she brushed her hand over her cheek and pulled back bloody fingers, "the cuts seem superficial. You?"

She was definitely sending a thank you note to the makers of their rental car. For all the metal crunching . . . the car was definitely totaled . . . the impact had been on the back end and not the front passenger section.

That . . . from what she could see . . . had done what it was supposed to do in a crash, retain most of it's basic 'human protecting' shape.

"Yeah," Hotch blinked as he tried to focus in to get his bearings, "same I think."

He knew that they had to get moving . . . that they were still in danger . . . but his head was spinning, his equilibrium was fucked and his world had gone ass side up.

Really . . . he tried to suck in a breath from a chest that felt like it had just been used for kickboxing practice . . . he just needed a second. But that's when he processed the sound of an engine gunning, and remembered that he had no time to take one.

This wasn't over yet.

"He's coming again!" He hissed while pushing past Emily to get her door open, "Get out! Get into the woods!"

The car was leaning against the tree, and she was on the side closer to the ground. And as Emily scrambled to get her seatbelt off . . . and he did the same . . . he prayed for her to get out before they were hit again.

Emily's breath was ragged as she first slid down to the windshield beneath them, and then moved to climb out of the mangled car.

But unfortunately they'd landed at such an angle, that when the door fell open, there was barely six or seven inches of clearance to fit a human body through.

And she wasn't fat, but still . . . she felt a crushing despair fill her chest . . . her hips were NEVER going to clear that space!

But before she could get those words out of her mouth, Hotch was behind her, pulling her gun from her hand and shoving her towards the little gap.

"NOW Prentiss!" He yelled, "NOW!"

That's when she processed that a new noise had filled the air . . . silence.

The engine had been turned off.

Oh shit!

And that was enough motivation to get her to try to do the impossible . . . contort her body like she worked for cirque du soleil.

So with Hotch pushing her along . . . pulling off her holster, and plucking at her clothes when they got caught on the twisted metal . . . she scooched and shimmied and swore her way inch by inch through the tiny space.

The sticky branches and pine needles were digging into her palms as she dragged herself forward.

It felt like it was taking forever, but she knew that mere seconds were passing. And after an agonizing pressure on her pelvic area . . . enough to make her eyes water, it felt like she was being run through a meat grinder . . . her hips suddenly popped through and her upper body was free.

From there it was nothing to slip her legs through the space . . . though it did take contorting like an earthworm to make it happen.

She flopped to the ground half on her side, and then Hotch's face was in the small crack behind her. He was dropping her Sig into her hands.

"Go," he hissed, "into the trees."

"But," she blinked up at him as she started to protest leaving him behind. But then she realized.

He would never fit through that space.

The only way out for him would be to scramble out the other door and over the top of the car. But there was no cover on that side. And an exit from that angle . . . over a slippery car hood . . . if the door even opened . . . could take as long as twenty or thirty seconds.

Thirty seconds of complete vulnerability.

The UNSUB would get him with either the truck or a bullet.

And realizing then that Hotch was trapped . . . truly . . . Emily's felt a burst of pure rage fill her.

Well that was just BULLSHIT! And she wasn't going to leave him here to get pancaked into a pine tree!

Fuck that!

"Give me your Glock," Emily whispered furiously at Hotch as she pushed herself up to a crouching position, "I'll keep you covered until you can get out."

Hotch's jaw twitched once before he twisted around to yank his spare weapon from his ankle holster.

"Safe distance," he ordered as he slapped it into her hand, "I'm going to try to get out through the windshield."

"Right, I'll cov . . ."

Before Emily could even get the offer out, Hotch had cut her off with a glare.

"Just _move _Prentiss," Hotch shot back with a harsh whisper as he slipped his gun from his holster, "Safe distance. NOW!"

Emily knew better than to argue with that tone . . . there was only one response he wanted to hear.

"Yes, sir," she whispered as she pushed herself off the ground, "but I'm staying close," she continued fiercely, while wiping away a tiny trickle of blood and sweat running into her eye, "we're both getting out of here."

And with that she turned and began moving further into the trees.

Hotch watched to make sure Emily got out of sight in the underbrush before finally letting out the breath that he was holding.

At least she was relatively safe.

So . . . he snapped his head around to reassess his own exit . . . what the hell was he going to do? The UNSUB just sitting out there doing nothing was causing him some serious concern.

And though he'd love to take a second and climb up to peek out of the driver's side window, he didn't much relish taking a bullet to the forehead. That's what he was figuring the UNSUB was up to right about then.

Polishing up weapons for target practice.

And not wishing to play the part of the poultry in the upcoming turkey shoot, Hotch twisted around to slide into the backseat.

Though he'd told Emily that he was going to try to go out the windshield . . . the glass was half popped out . . . after looking though, he saw that there was a pool of something forming beneath the hood of the car.

And whatever the something was . . . he was praying it wasn't gasoline . . . it was probably flammable. And he didn't much relish being covered in anything flammable if bullets were about to be shot at him.

So with a grunt he levered him around the seat cushion and into an awkward heap with his ass on the roof of the car, and his legs on the back seat. Then he hurriedly scrambled to yank open the back door.

This one was far enough from the ground that it would swing wide enough for him to get out.

Or it would have . . . his eyes suddenly widened in horror . . . but it was stuck.

FUCK!

Just then Hotch heard the creak of another door . . . one that _was_ opening . . . and he felt, for the first time in a long time . . . a genuine panic flood his body.

The UNSUB knew this would happen.

Of course he did. That's why he'd slammed been slamming into the back end and not the front . . . he didn't want to kill them outright . . . he'd wanted to crumple the doors.

Limit their exits.

If this was the UNSUB's first big chance to hunt big game . . . man . . . then he wasn't going to be satisfied with a simple car wreck to take them out.

Not this guy. Not after the things that he'd done to those animals.

And there was little doubt in Hotch's mind that this was the UNSUB that they'd been looking for.

Who else would come after them with such vehemence?

He'd wanted to hurt them first. Because in his mind . . . Hotch's eyes began to dart around maniacally as he tried to figure out his next move . . . he knew that this UNSUB, needed the torture/kill for there to be any point to the kill at all. And when Hotch flashed on all of the animal corpses that were jammed into that freezer, that was enough of an adrenaline shot to clear his mind to work out his last big move. Well . . . he shifted his body around . . . last big move before he put a bullet under his chin.

He was NOT going to end up dissected as anyone's science experiment.

And with that cheery thought driving him on, he braced his heels against the back door he'd been trying to get open . . . then he pulled up his knees . . . and slammed his feet back down as hard as he could.

Nothing.

So he tried again . . . sweat started pouring down his face . . . and again . . . and again . . . and then one more time.

And in between every furious grunt of exertion, he could the sound of footsteps moving towards him. They were coming slow . . . enjoying the hunt, probably even more knowing that his prey was stuck in a metal box . . . but the truck couldn't have been more than twenty paces away.

And just like the movie monsters, this monster was going to get there eventually.

At that point Hotch felt like his heart was going to pound straight through his chest like that alien creature, but then finally . . . miraculously . . . he got his break.

The door popped open.

It was just an inch . . . and it screeched when it did it . . . but it was enough to fill him with elation.

'_Thank CHRIST!_' He thought as he kicked again, this time nearly taking the door off it's hinges as it went flying back.

Then Hotch was shimmying forward, dropping his legs through the open space just as he heard the footsteps from behind him begin to pound across the ground.

The UNSUB had just realized his prey was about to get away.

The fall to the ground wasn't far . . . only a few feet until his shoulder slammed into the dirt . . . but it still hurt like a bitch. The wreck probably was the cause for that.

These were the moments where Hotch knew that he was starting to get too old for this shit.

But he didn't stop to wax philosophic on his future career plans, not with a fledgling serial killer racing up behind him armed with God knows what from his little arsenal of toys.

So with the adrenaline still flooding his body, he rolled over, pushing off the ground with one hand, right before he ran into the darkening forest.

He got about twenty feet in, barely making cover behind a mossy oak before a shotgun blast threw the bark up into his face. It cut him under the eye.

FUCK!

Before he could move to fire back . . . he couldn't even see yet where the shooter was . . . he heard three quick shots being fired through the trees.

Emily.

And then there was a scream from the UNSUB and Hotch darted his head around to see a white male in his mid-thirties, dropping to the ground.

He was howling as he fell . . . it was clear that he was gravely wounded . . . but the shotgun was still in his hand.

Hotch took care of that.

One bullet into his forearm resulted in another scream . . . and making use of the right hand impossible.

"PRENTISS!" He yelled as he ran towards the body now on the ground, "PRENTISS! ARE YOU HURT?"

"No!" Emily called back and she came running in from the other direction, "no, he never saw me!"

As they both converged on the body . . . each stopping by a tree ten feet back on either side . . . Hotch spared his agent a quick glance to make sure that she looked relatively okay.

Her hair was a mess, she was covered in dirt and pine needles, couple rips in her clothes and cuts on her face and hands. But otherwise . . . his gaze snapped back down to the UNSUB . . . she seemed all right.

"Is he dead?" Emily asked breathlessly as she stared down at the body in horror. It wouldn't be the first bad man that she'd killed . . . but even if they were bad men, she still never enjoyed the process of taking a life. And if the day ever came when she did, she knew that would be the day for her to turn in her badge and her gun.

That meant that the abyss had been looking back into her for long enough.

Hotch's gaze narrowed as he stared down at the body for a moment. Then he shook his head.

"No," he started moving in with sights held on the UNSUB's throat, "not yet."

His chest was still moving . . . and he also had a hunting knife hanging off of his hip.

Just as Emily started to take a step towards Hotch and their injured attacker, she heard a noise coming from back towards the area by the car.

She froze, her eyes popping open as her gaze locked with Hotch's equally alarmed one.

_Somebody else was about to join them in the forest._

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_A/N 2: Yes, I know another cliffhanger, so many of them! But I actually have the rest of the scene spinning out in my head to the end of the story, but it would it would have been too long to try and write it all up in one go. That said, if possible, I'm going to see if I can work out the draft as my next item because I THINK, that I could maybe wrap it in just one more chapter. And then it would be done. Yay!_

_I tweeted when I was writing this that I had to dig out a matchbox car to write the crash scene. And that was the first time I felt like a real writer :) It's true though. I was using my coffee cup as a prop tree and the coffee table as the open field trying to figure out the position of everything when you're moving around in a half upside down car. It was hard! At first I had Hotch climbing into the backseat and then I'm like, wait no, he's on the roof! So it was much easier for him to get in the back than how I'd planned his day :)_

_If you're reading Second Chances, you know I wrote a scene where Hotch also 'disarmed' a man with a bullet. Here I had him opt for the forearm shot, as sort of a juxtaposition between him acting cool and in control, and him on the dark edge that he was in the other story. _

_Last note, I had so much sympathy for Emily when I was having her climb out. There's nothing like that pain from an injury in the pelvic area. If you've ever run for a train and slammed into a subway turnstile that didn't open when you thought it would, you'll know what I'm saying!_


	10. They Who Fight With Monsters

**Author's Note:**

***WARNING***

**There's some disturbing stuff here in the opening. But, it's time to meet the UNSUB. So, if you're not in the mood to find out how the monster in this story was made, and what it did in its free time, be ready to go with the 'skimming' approach to some of the more descriptive segments.**

Beyond that, a couple of FYI points:

I've been working on this story, and nothing _but_ this story, for the last month. And it is finally, done! The complete telling of how things ended in Stars Hollow covers close to 70 pages, but I had to cut it a couple of times because it was just too much to try and proof all at once. So this is the first of _three_ concluding chapters. They're all written, but they'll be going up staggered a few days apart because again, lot to proof.

And to this opening, I'm doing something I don't often do given that we ended the last chapter on a bit of a cliffy, we're jumping ahead beyond that moment. You'll find out what happened in the woods, but not 'live.' It just wasn't how my brain processed the scene. It kept moving ahead and I realized trying to go back and write a live scene that my brain didn't want to write, was counterproductive. When you try to go against instinct, it stalls the wrap up.

Lastly, I've decided to pull this story out and give it its own lettered Universe. Universe F. And I did that for reasons that will become quite apparent as we move to the end. But basically something will happen in an upcoming scene that falls outside fannon for later events in the main Girl'verse. And though I had not planned the scene initially, I thought it worked very well for this story, so I kept it. And then basically you'll how things shifted off from there. But remember now that we're definitively in our own world, and this tale is ending, anything can happen here in Stars Hollow!

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**Other Accounts:**

_****PERSONAL WEBSITE: www . fractured-reality . com**_

_I have a new website. If interested, you can read more about it (and my future on FF . net) on my Tumblr listed below. It's the June 10th note._

_**Twitter: ffsienna27 **__– For story announcements, etc. If the alerts, (or the site), are down, this is a backup to find out what's going on for postings. There's also random randomness that is my brain._

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**Author Prompt Set #24 (August 2012)**

Author: Jenna Blum

Title Challenge: Those Who Save Us

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**They Who Fight With Monsters**

Copper, urine, feces and . . . Hotch blanched and dropped his eyes down to the packed dirt at his feet . . . barbecue.

Those were the smells assaulting him as he stood at the bottom of the rickety cellar stairs with the State Police floodlights blinding his eyes.

He was in the basement of the house at 107 Pearberry Lane. A house that had turned out to be as evil as any Hotch had ever walked into. And though this structure was currently filled with members of law enforcement covering local, state and federal jurisdictions, up until that morning, 107 Pearberry had just been home to a family of four.

The St. Clairs.

That morning, the St. Clairs of 107 Pearberry had consisted of a mother and father in their mid-40s, a teenager daughter, and a young son. With a working dad and a stay-at-home mom, on a census perhaps, they would have been listed as a fairly typical family of four.

But this family had been anything but typical.

The daughter, Danielle . . . Dani . . . was a fifteen year old sociopath. It was Dani that had brought him and Emily to Stars Hollow. It was Dani who had set the fires around town. Dani who had created the pentagrams that they'd traced on the maps, and Dani who had slaughtered her neighbors' pets.

And then today . . . Hotch's jaw clenched . . . it was Dani who had tortured and killed her parents in the family basement where he now stood.

And though this girl had help in her ascension to becoming probably the youngest female UNSUB in their books . . . help in the form of her boyfriend, Darren, who had tried to ram him and Emily into a tree some hours earlier . . . Hotch saw Dani as the true mastermind behind this sadistic, and horrifically violent rampage that had terrorized this small community.

But of course, given what they had learned tonight, Dani's crimes . . . and her true pathology . . . were going to be topics of study for some time. There was no doubt that she was a monster . . . but why. What had made her this way?

And could anyone, have done anything, to stop it?

He didn't know.

The definition of evil, and whether nature or nurture was the driving force behind it, was a base question of not only their work, but of life itself. It had been the foundation for the countless religions. And though Hotch himself remained on the fence as to which was a more powerful influence . . . his own back story proved that you could beat all the odds working against you . . . he did plan on having a few visits down the road with Dani St. Clair.

She was a special case.

Because unlike him, with his alcoholic father and his psychopathic stepfather, Dani had not beat the odds working against her. She had not chosen a path out of the darkness she'd been born into. She'd chosen to go further in. Her crimes were even perpetrated from the same house, at the same _time_, as her parents.

The rotten apple never even fell off the tree.

Probably the one clear difference between the apples on that tree, were sheer multitude of acts. The elder St. Clairs were . . . by their daughter's sharing of their family history, and the insurmountable physical evidence found so far . . . prolific offenders. And as evidenced by the blood stained homemade dungeon that Hotch found himself standing in . . . again, the family basement . . . Ellen and Bill St. Clair had been killing people for a long time. At least a decade.

Perhaps two.

Perhaps their crimes went back even further than that. Christ only knew the lives that they'd lived before they'd found one another back in their early 20s. Whatever had happened before that . . . and Hotch would have somebody dig into it . . . it was clear that the body count resulting from this couple's 'joint' endeavors, would reach double digits.

But hopefully no higher.

"_These people were indiscriminate purveyors of torture, sexual sadism and death," _that was Hotch's post-mortem assessment of their crimes.

Emily had agreed.

At the time that they'd that discussion, they'd been standing in the master bedroom, leaning over the dresser, while Emily slowly turned the pages of the St. Clairs' trophy albums. Their stomachs had been churning as they looked at the dozens, and dozens, of glossy photographs.

Each photograph portraying a moment of agony. A human being that was being tortured, and violated, in some of the most horrific ways imaginable. And some ways that weren't even imaginable.

Even for people like them.

'And they were yet another pair that had stayed below the radar,' Hotch thought with a weary disgust. Before today, they had no idea that there was an active serial killer . . . let alone two . . . working in this part of Connecticut. And every time they discovered a new killing ground . . . one that their fancy statistical algorithms hadn't picked up . . . he wondered, truly, if their work even mattered.

It was a question that kept coming back to him.

At this point they might as well screw the psych degrees and IQ tests, and just look for people to join the BAU that had a history in sanitation. Because that's all they were, he thought bitterly, just a fucking clean-up crew. Hell, they might as well start passing out HEFTY bags and SHOVELS along with their badges and guns!

_Then_ they might actually do something USEFUL when they showed up two fucking DECADES too late!

CHRIST!

Realizing that people were starting to stare at him . . . his breathing was ragged and his hands had curled into fists . . . Hotch turned abruptly and walked over to one of the empty corners of the cellar.

The forensics team had already moved through there.

And when the others went back to their work . . . went back to ignoring him . . . for the first time in hours, Hotch had a moment of relative, blessed, privacy.

He closed his eyes.

He was trying to push down the anger and grief rising up . . . trying to will his composure back into a state of being. It was difficult. But, slowly, he shifted back to his center.

Or at least he moved away from the edge.

That was the best he could do.

All right . . . he sucked in a ragged breath . . . maybe they weren't _entirely_ useless. This trip to Connecticut had, through a chain reaction of random events . . . some of which they could take credit for, some of which they would never want to . . . saved _countless_ future victims.

Of that he was sure.

Because those people would have been victims of not only Ellen or Bill . . . but also Dani and Darren. And the latter were just fledgling killers with a lifetime of torture games ahead of them. Before today they'd still mostly been practicing on small animals.

But _today_, today with the slaughter of Dani's parents, they'd moved on to their big game. And now that they had a taste for it, they would never go back.

None of them ever did.

And Hotch knew that those faceless 'might have beens,' that they had to be enough comfort to get him through this day. Because that's all they had.

That's all they were worth.

And that was the ugly truth of it. In many ways his team, they were always going to be a clean-up crew. There were just too many of them out there. For active offenders . . . with known and unknown killing grounds . . . his unit was outnumbered tenfold. Christ, he and Emily had flown up to investigate a few fires and a series of animal mutilations. It could have been, literally, anything. But they'd started a file, and kicked over a rock.

Four snakes had slithered out.

Two had been stomped to death, and two were going to be locked up. That was as much justice as they were going to get. They would never have a 'win.' It didn't work like that. This was a war. They fought battles, and skirmishes. Sometimes they lost horrifically . . . Gideon was a prime example of that . . . but even when they limped off the field on a day like this, it was never a win. Because again, it was a war. Nobody ever won a war.

If they were lucky, the best they could hope for was to survive it.

And both he and Emily were walking away from this one with four killers out of action, and minimal personal, physical injuries. So that was all they were going to get.

Well, that . . . Hotch's jaw clenched . . . and Andy. But Andy didn't count as a win either.

Andy was a tragedy.

He was the St. Clairs' five year old son. And as far as they knew so far . . . though intense counseling with the boy had not yet begun . . . the only member of this household that had never tortured or killed another living creature. He was an innocent.

As far as that term could apply in the world he had been born into.

And Hotch had his fingers crossed that this fact would stay true, that he could keep the blood off his own hands. That they hadn't been too late to save him from becoming like his sister.

A lost cause.

But in his bones, Hotch also knew that it would take a miracle for Andy's soul to be saved. He too shared that polluted gene pool. And he too had been physically and psychologically abused by his parents. Abused in ways that Hotch couldn't . . . and wouldn't . . . allow himself to truly dwell on, on _this_ night. Because he just kept picturing Jack's face on Andy's body.

And every time he just wanted to fall to his knees and weep.

That had been his instinct when he'd first found Andy, naked and bleeding. He was in a cage hidden in one of the upstairs bedrooms.

_Dear God, he looks just like Jack. _

The thought had come to him, and it had actually _frozen_ him, for just a moment. But then he took a breath, and he got his shit together.

Because that's what they did.

And once he got his shit together, his second thought was to thank God that he had been the one to search the bedroom and not Emily. Because after every other brutality that she'd been immersed in on that day . . . and she had been taking the BRUNT of the trauma on this one . . . he feared that moment would have broken her.

It had nearly broken him.

But once he'd knelt down, he'd shoved as much of that pain back down that he could manage. It was a ruthless process. But everything about his job was ruthless.

It ate you out from the inside.

So with a deep breath, and a silent prayer, he'd begun speaking softly to the little boy that looked so much like his son.

At that point the deputy he'd partnered with for the bedroom search, had called up one of the crime scene technicians to meet them in the bedroom. And with her taking photos to document the scene . . . or more specifically documenting that poor child's burns and sores, his cuts and his sobbing . . . Hotch had begun to slowly coax Andy out of the cage.

It hadn't been easy.

He had to keep his badge out, and keep promising him . . . _swearing_ to him . . . that he was safe. That the house was filled with police officers. And that nobody could hurt him anymore.

That nobody would ever hurt him ever again.

It had taken almost fifteen minutes of promising things that he shouldn't promise . . . safety was an illusion, and the world was a terrible place . . . but then finally, he got through to that boy. He didn't know if he truly believed the promises that he'd made, or if Andy finally realized that the world beyond his room, couldn't possibly be any worse than the world that he already lived in.

Well, probably not anyway.

Either way, he suddenly sniffled, and wiped his nose. And then he slowly began to unfurl himself from his little ball. And a moment after that, he'd begun to crawl out from within his little prison.

And when he'd stood in front of Hotch, shaking and crying, Hotch had again, wanted to weep himself. But he'd pushed down the lump in his throat, and blinked the moisture from his eyes. He didn't lose his composure at crimes scenes.

Or at least he hadn't yet.

So he'd given that little boy a soft . . . pained . . . smile as he slowly put his hand out. And after a second of staring intently . . . like he was trying to read his soul . . . Andy too had reached out.

His arm was shaking. And when that dirty little hand had been placed into his palm, Hotch knew that he'd received a precious gift.

An abused child's trust.

He'd curled his fist shut. And then he gently squeezed the little fingers, while he told Andy that he was a good boy, and that they were going to get him out of there.

Finally, promises that weren't lies.

And Hotch held on . . . though he kept a little physical distance, he didn't want to frighten him . . . while he kept whispering over and over that everything would be okay.

He was back to his lies again.

And while he was bonding with a little boy who had probably never known a kind word, or a kind act, the deputy had been searching frantically around for something clean to cover him in.

There were no blankets in the room without visible stains.

But then finally the crime scene photographer had exclaimed, "oh" and run out of the room. Two minute later she ran back in, slightly breathless, carrying a Scooby Doo blanket.

Her eyes had been watering when she handed it to Hotch. She said it belonged to her son. She'd been called in from home, and it had been in the back seat of her car.

She'd almost forgotten she had it.

Then a tear slid down her cheek, and she quickly wiped it away. And Hotch had felt a pang of sympathy . . . and envy . . . because he'd known something then.

This world was new to her.

If only he could have said the same. But he couldn't. And as the one who lived that life every day, he'd given her a little smile, and a nod of thanks.

Then he'd quickly turned away.

Because he'd realized that tonight she was going to go home and hug her child, while he was going to go back to a hotel room and look at a picture of his.

His sympathy had morphed back to envy . . . and hate.

But he pushed that aside too when he turned to gently wrap the soft flannel around the little boy in front of him. Then Hotch gave him another smile, again blinking away the moisture that was burning his eyes. Then he finally reached out, scooping up that child that looked so much like his son.

He'd cradled him just as he had when Jack was a baby. It was the only way to be sure that he wouldn't hurt him any worse than he already was. And so with the deputy and the technician trailing behind, he'd carefully carried Andy out of the bedroom, through the upstairs hall, and down the narrow staircase.

He banged his elbow twice, but Andy didn't get jostled once.

When he'd gotten to the bottom of the stairs, he spared Emily a look. She was standing by the fireplace, her eyes wide with horror. And he could see where her arms were crossed, that her fingers were digging into her flesh.

And then she looked away.

Looked back to the cuffed Dani sitting across the living room.

There had been no expression on the younger woman's face . . . though she had been the one that told them to look in the back bedroom under the quilt.

"Mom and dad keep my brother in a cage up there . . . his name is Andy."

Her tone had been flat when she'd shared that news . . . almost like she was telling them about the family dog. But Hotch supposed that he had to at least give her a point for mentioning her brother at all. The house was so big, and filled with so much garbage . . . these people lived in their own filth . . . that they might not have gotten through a full search of that room for hours.

But that was because at time everything was still actively 'happening.'

Darren had been taken away in the first ambulance, but their backup was still arriving. There were only maybe seven or eight other members of law enforcement on site. A couple of FBI agents, a couple of deputies, the sheriff, and two lab techs.

That was nothing compared to what they had now.

Also though, in addition to waiting for more investigators, they were still waiting for another ambulance to arrive. This wasn't a big city, or even a bustling little town. This was the sticks.

Ambulatory response time was . . . to put it mildly . . . delayed.

So Hotch had gone out to the porch. The sun had just gone down then, and the State Police hadn't arrived yet with all of the sodium lamps. But the lights from the cruisers were keeping the yard awash in a swirl of blue and red.

If you didn't know why they were there, it was almost pretty.

Almost.

So Hotch had gone over to the buckling steps, and sat down with Andy in his lap. And they sat there in the dark and they watched the lights flash and the people rush around. After a few minutes one of the deputies came over with a chocolate bar that he'd found in his glove compartment. Hotch unwrapped it, and Andy scarfed it down like he hadn't eaten in a week.

He probably hadn't.

But then the second ambulance had shown up.

And Hotch's heart had ached when he had to hand that boy off to the paramedics. As they carried him away, Andy was sobbing and twisting, reaching back for his hand.

He wanted him to stay with him.

And Hotch had to let him go . . . but he'd sent a piece of himself off with him.

But after seeing what had been done to that child, if the parents hadn't already been dead, Hotch might have killed them himself.

Truly.

It had been about three and a half hours since he'd sent Andy to the hospital with one of the local deputies. But his rage on that point had not faded yet. But of course things just kept happening to feed it.

First there was the ambush out in the driveway, and then there was the second ambush out in the woods.

The second time it was Danielle with a butcher knife.

Emily had subdued her, and within a few minutes the first deputy had arrived with a pair of cuffs to haul her away. That was the one break that they'd gotten that day, a relatively speedy response on getting help.

And again, they were in the sticks, so 'relatively speedy' was the best that they could hope for.

By all accounts . . . and that was including conversations with Dave and Morgan where Hotch told them to stay back in Virginia . . . the team had been able to reach the sheriff, the state police, and the local FBI field office within three minutes of Emily's text. Their first backup had arrived about eight minutes after that.

And then the backup _kept_ coming for two and half more hours.

But they still didn't have enough officers and agents onsite. Not to cover everything that they were looking for. And what they were looking for . . . what they'd already _literally_ unearthed . . . were graves.

Lots of them.

At this point they had no reason to believe that Danielle had killed anyone else at the house, so the victims . . . of which they knew there would be dozens . . . would all belong to the senior St. Clairs. But the property was large . . . and they had the woods to consider too . . . so that excavation was going to go on for two or three days at least. But that was mostly now a local matter.

This was their case to close.

And with Darren off in surgery at the county hospital, and Danielle just, finally . . . after a three plus hour confession . . . having been taken out of the house in cuffs, there was really nothing more for Hotch or Emily to do at the house that night.

But he still wasn't quite ready to go yet.

Hence his trip down to the basement.

Though part of Hotch wanted to leave, to just let it go . . . let the images begin to fade and meld with all of the other horrors in his mind . . . he'd been driven to come down and take one final look at this nightmarish underground world. There were so many hells on earth.

He sometimes wondered how many he would visit before he died.

But this one was a special hell. This was the one where Ellen and Bill had played medieval torture games with not only with their children, but also drifters and prostitutes from any major city within driving distance.

Those were the victims in their trophy albums.

According to Danielle . . . and they had no reason to disbelieve her version of events . . . those cities they'd hunted in included New York, Bridgeport, Providence, and Boston. Jurisdictional issues would have been a nightmare if not for the St. Clairs being dead.

But today all of their power had been stripped away. Danielle had been the dungeon master, and Darren her assistant. And the games that these inhumane people had played . . . both the parents and the children . . . had been quite literally,_ medieval_.

Danielle was still soaked in blood when she'd come running and screaming into the woods.

Hotch's lips pursed as he looked over to the south wall where the forensics team was now working. That was where Bill had constructed a homemade rack and a full size Iron Maiden. Craftsmanship clearly had been important to him.

No detail had been spared.

There was also a Judas Cradle in the north corner, and a Breast Ripper on the floor next to that. Both devices Hotch had only previously seen . . . or even heard of being used . . . in books.

From the sixteenth century.

But Ellen and Bill had a decidedly 'old school' bent. And the Spanish Inquisition had apparently been their greatest influence. All four devices were covered in blood and all manner of other bodily fluids.

They'd had a lot of 'fun' down here.

Those weren't the only torture devices that the St. Clairs had played with though. But the other instruments were less lethal . . . and for the most part . . . somewhat less painful. Of course when you were being tortured, pain was relative to what you were suffering at that moment.

And suffering was clearly the purpose of all the games.

Because those other devices . . . the 'less painful' ones . . . had included a thumbscrew vice, a half dozen whips hanging from the work table, and two sets of chains and shackles built into one of the concrete walls. Danielle said that the chains were for "when dad brought home prostitutes from the city." The prostitutes were apparently for her mom to play with.

The women did seem to run the show in this family.

So far the dogs had found two graves out in the back part of the property, going into the woods. The investigation was still in early hours yet, so only one of the graves had been fully excavated. And the body that they had found inside was old, with no obvious cause of death.

Danielle said that she didn't know who was buried out there, that the graves had been there as long as she could remember. So they were going on the assumption that it might have been a parent or an elderly neighbor. Somebody who could have died of an accident or natural causes. If so, there could have been a financial gain for the St. Clairs in keeping the death quiet.

It happened all the time.

So in the morning the accountants would begin going through the boxes of papers they were pulling out of the house. Social security or disability fraud would be the focus of their portion of the investigation. Their work would take weeks, and it would be tedious and exhausting.

Still though, Hotch was somewhat envious of them.

To live in a world without violence or blood . . . he shook his head . . . what was that like? He honestly had no idea.

Not anymore.

So now those paper crimes only interested him in as much as they told him about the types of perpetrators who would commit them. _His_ primary concern . . . as far as they were allowed to stay involved in the case . . . was finding the rest of the bodies. He suspected that most of the victims would be found in the basement.

After all there was a reason that these people had reinforced concrete walls, but had kept a dirt floor.

So members of an FBI forensics team . . . specialists on loan from New York . . . had just arrived to set up their sonar equipment.

They were trying to figure out where to dig.

Hotch was had mostly just come down to see that the process . . . which he knew would also be long and tedious . . . had begun. After that he was leaving. Over his years with the BAU, he'd seen literally hundreds of mutilated bodies that had been ripped up out of the cold ground.

He didn't need to see these ones too.

He just wanted to make sure that they were found.

Emily had had enough of the basement earlier when they'd found the blood and fecal matter smeared on the Judas Cradle. From the look on her face, and the way her closed fist pressed into her stomach, he knew that she was thinking back to the Pear of Anguish.

So now she had another sexual torture device to add to her nightmare play list.

And she got that stack of horrors, in _addition _to the guilt over shooting Darren . . . she always felt guilty after a shooting, it was the Catholic in her . . . the pain of taking the child witness statements in the morning, and then the horror of bonding with Danielle in the evening. She'd gotten it coming and going over and again. And yet still she kept her composure and her professionalism.

She was truly . . . he bit his lip . . . remarkable. He honestly didn't know anyone else like her. And as privileged as he felt that he could call her a confidant, and in having her working as part of his team, it was still one of those days where Hotch's hatred of their job . . . and himself . . . far outweighed his pride in the good work that they did.

And those days where his mind was black, and his soul felt empty, were coming more and more often as of late. And that was something that he needed to deal with before all of his days were like that. The problem was, he just didn't know where to begin.

There was no road map out of hell.

And that's pretty much where he was right now. And when he told Emily that he was going back down in the cellar, and her eyes dropped as she said that she was going outside to wait out on the porch, he'd felt a stab of pain in his chest.

He'd wanted to give her a hug. And to tell her that he was sorry. And that he would make this day up to her.

But the words would have been lies.

He would never make this day up to her. There wasn't enough pixie dust in the world to make this day better. So he'd bitten down his useless apologies, and kept his hands to himself. Instead he sufficed with just giving her a tight nod, and a whispered "okay," as she'd slipped by him in the kitchen.

He'd wanted so badly to go after her . . . but he'd stayed right where he was. And he'd hated himself for that too. Because that was something else that he needed to work on.

And something else that was wrong with him, that he didn't know where to begin to fix.

But now that he was back down in the cellar, soaking up the atmosphere and the smells, he was again wishing that he'd gone outside to chase her down.

Though his reasons for wanting to leave now, were of a much more selfish variety. Because unfortunately he'd timed his last viewing of the night just right.

Or really . . . he rubbed his hand over his mask covered mouth . . . just wrong.

A moment ago the Medical Examiner's team had begun doing body removal. The parents were being scooped out of the cooling furnace.

Well, most of them anyway.

There was still a pile of slippery meat stacked on the floor next to the oversized oven. That was Mr. St. Clair. To quote Danielle:

"Dad's fat ass hadn't fit in the furnace."

Yeah . . . Hotch closed his eyes for a moment . . . these were the days he really hated this job. The things that they saw, and the stories that they had to hear. Like tonight, Dani telling them how after she and Darren had tortured and slaughtered her parents, that they'd tried to burn the mangled bodies in the furnace.

That was of course the barbecue odor.

But it wasn't quite barbecue. Burning flesh, burning hair . . . burning organs, it had an odor all its own. An odor that was making even the most seasoned of these forensic technicians, work a regular rotation out to the yard for fresh air.

It was the only way to avoid throwing up.

Hotch himself had a mask over his face, and his hand over his mask, but he was still planning on heading out in a moment. Now that he'd seen the grid was being outlined for the sonar, he was just taking one last look around the wide open space. He really didn't want to come back down here again, so he was hoping to confirm as many of the details of Dani's confession that he could now. And she'd shared so much it was a lot to take in.

But again, she'd talked for hours.

And like any fifteen year old girl . . . sociopath or not . . . there had been stars in her eyes for most of the evening. So in essence her confession was really more her telling of a love story. One punctuated with tales of brutality and death. But that was the only kind of love that Dani and Darren had been capable of.

They were the couple from hell, take two.

Darren was Darren McCluskey, age twenty-six. The son of a promiscuous, alcoholic, single mother, he was a high school dropout who worked as an auto mechanic over at Gypsy's Garage in Stars Hollow. One day on his lunch break, he'd spotted a pink cheeked, fully blossomed, fourteen year old Danielle (Dani) at the annual picnic basket auction on the town common.

He was instantly smitten.

By Hotch's review of the pictures in the home, he knew that even back then . . . fourteen months earlier . . . Danielle had the physique of an older girl. Still clearly not old ENOUGH for Darren though, who was then twenty-five, but he didn't care. At that point he already had two misdemeanor public indecency charges in his jacket.

He liked to expose himself to young girls.

And though there was nothing officially on his record about him having _sex_ with young girls, besides Dani of course, the investigation was still in very early hours. Right now all they had was the paper record, which generally only told part of a pedophile's story.

They'd find the rest on interviews around town.

That was the focus for the next day, to help the sheriff outline a plan to fill in the missing pieces of the case. But for now the pieces that they had were bad enough. Fate had arranged an opportunity for a budding pedophile, and pre-teen sociopath, to meet. Darren had bid on Danielle's picnic basket.

It had a bright pink ribbon.

That basket and that ribbon would one day turn up on Cindy Henderson's front porch. On that day it would house poor little Ralphie's mutilated remains. But on the day that Darren and Dani met, it was being used for its original, more mundane purpose.

Lunch.

So on a red blanket, under a weeping willow, in one of the most idyllic communities Aaron Hotchner had ever visited, two dark and vicious souls found each other.

If only they'd killed themselves instead.

But they hadn't. They'd fallen in love . . . as much as either of them were capable of that emotion . . . and a set of events fell into motion. Events that even now Hotch was struggling to wrap his mind around. They weren't the worst killers that he'd come across, but there was something so disturbed and twisted about not only their crimes, but their love, that he knew they were going to stick with him for a long time.

Perhaps even to the end.

And part of it was those God damn baskets. Hotch had already thought that they were a horrible enough method of delivery for the slaughtered pets. But once he'd discovered . . . through the interview with Danielle . . . WHY, it was that they'd chosen to leave the animal remains in those baskets, he'd come again to one of those moments where he truly wondered why it was he had let his wife and son go, so that he could stay and live in this world.

That loss seemed without purpose.

Because those baskets with the bright pink ribbons and the shredded family pets . . . they had been Darren's love letters to Danielle. They thought the imagery was romantic.

A symbol for the day that they had met.

It was one of those rare instances where Hotch had come close to _completely_ losing it during an interview. He'd just wanted to throw Danielle against the wall and scream, "what the fuck is WRONG with you people?!" But he already knew what was wrong with them.

Too many things to name.

So he'd reigned in his temper and curled his fists as Emily continued with her deceptively calm . . . he knew the revulsion she was feeling . . . conversation with Danielle.

She'd learned that Darren and Dani shared a love of pizza, John Woo movies, New Wave music, sexual bondage, sexual exhibitionism, and the torture of small animals.

The occult was Danielle's special hobby.

And with her as the clear alpha of the pair . . . age and gender were not always indicative of level of control . . . their animal abductions had begun as a way for Dani to gauge Darren's love for her. Bring me a puppy.

It was a child's test.

Probably the last shred of connection that she had with the little girl she once was. But that little girl . . . and any innocence she might have possessed . . . was long dead. It was clear from her behavior upstairs with him and Emily both . . . alternating between a teenager's vacuous self-involved chatter, to unprovoked threats of violence, to raunchy flirtation . . . that not only had she been physically tortured by her mother and father, but she'd also been sexually abused by both of her parents as well. So she saw sex as a weapon of violence.

And a means of control.

That was in part how she got Darren to do the most dangerous part of their work . . . actually going to and from the homes to first grab the animal, and later deposit the remains. By her own admission, Dani had been the one that had done most of the actual slaughtering.

She emulated what she'd seen her parents do . . . and she got off while she was doing it.

For Dani . . . with her background . . . sex and pain and happiness and blood, they were all mixed together. You couldn't have any one of those, without all of the others.

If she wasn't a monster, Hotch might have felt sorry for her.

But, she was a monster.

She was the one that had sourced out the pentagrams, and she was the one that had picked out the families to torture. They'd discovered that the actual butchery of the animals was somewhat incidental to her little reign of terror. The thing Danielle enjoyed most was just watching the kids open their picnic baskets. Seeing their happy little faces contort in horror, right before they threw up or began to screech in horror.

She would videotape it, and then watch it later as porn. She was beyond fixing, beyond redemption.

Beyond humanity.

She'd butchered her own cat just to become that crucial inverted edge of the pentagram. She'd admitted that in the interview too. And the only reason that they'd done the interview in the kitchen, rather than at the sheriff's office, or the local state police barracks, was because Dani wouldn't leave the property. When they'd tried to put her in backseat of a squad car, she'd thrown a fit so violent, that one of the four deputies trying to hold her down, had ended up having to go to the hospital. She'd bit off the tip of his finger.

Fortunately she'd spit it back out.

Cannibalism was the one thing that her family wasn't into.

So after they'd gotten the deputy reunited with his fingertip, and Dani into full restraints, Hotch had reassessed her pathology. And he'd realized the reason that she didn't want to leave the property yet, was because of what she and Darren had done in the basement.

The slaughtering of the elders.

It was her crowning achievement, she'd finally enacted her revenge, she stole their power . . . and she was insistent on telling her story to someone.

So Hotch let her.

In exchange for full disclosure of all crimes . . . they'd gotten a public defender out to bear witness and take notes for a diminished capacity defense that would never fly . . . Hotch had traded a visit to the hospital to see Darren. Danielle had agreed.

But she didn't want to talk to him about the details.

She'd wanted to talk to a woman. Only another woman would understand how much she loved Darren. That's what she'd said. So Emily had had to take point.

Though Hotch tried to step in as often as possible.

But once Emily got Danielle going, they got, well, more than they had bargained for. Not initially realizing the level of abuse or pathology that they were dealing with . . . they hadn't found the trophy albums yet . . . Hotch hadn't realized the level of atrocities that were going to be outlined.

Both hers and her parents.

Starting with Dani's earliest memories of getting her fingers burned as a toddler, right up to today when she'd locked her mother in the Iron Maiden right before she had Darren hoist her bound father up on the Judas Cradle, it was one piece of nightmarish imagery after another.

They'd even had had sex while her parents were screeching in agony.

Sometimes Hotch worried that he was growing numb to the violence of his world, but then he'd come across a killer like Dani, and if nothing else, she'd set his mind straight on that point. These stories still made his stomach hurt and his chest ache.

The job hadn't destroyed his soul yet.

Small mercy.

Though he had been admittedly conflicted about one point that Dani had shared. The reason that Bill and Ellen St. Clair had been tortured and killed on today of all days, was because he and Emily were on the way to the house. So . . . on some level . . . those two people were dead because of them.

Or at least that's how Hotch saw it.

And he'd had to decide if that truth pleased him . . . or horrified him. He'd decided that it was a bit of both.

But he wasn't quite okay with that.

But apparently when Dani and Darren heard that the FBI was investigating the animal slaughters, they'd thought that their time was running out. For Darren that was his final stressor, but for Dani it was an opportunity.

She wasn't about to get arrested before she'd finished what she'd started.

And what she'd started all those months earlier, was a game. One that was always going to end with the murder of her parents.

She'd just been biding her time.

So she'd faked the stomach flu to have an excuse to stay home. Darren had barricaded the doors from the outside, and then climbed up the buckling trellis and into her upstairs bedroom window.

And then while her parents were still eating breakfast, the two of them had gone down into the kitchen with another basket. This one also had a pretty ribbon, and it was full of tricks.

Lengths of rope, an assortment of knives, a couple of claw hammers, a couple of lighters, a pack of cigarettes . . . and a half dozen sharpened pieces of rebar.

It was sadist's rape kit.

The St. Clairs had taught their daughter well.

Of course little did they know at the time, that the lessons would be turned on the teachers. But based on the little smile on Danielle's face, and the Polaroids that they'd found in the basement, the student had definitely surpassed her teachers.

And once they were done . . . and had sex one last time on the bloodied drop cloth . . . Darren had gone to wait for the FBI to turn down Pearberry lane. When Emily had asked how they knew when they'd be coming . . . after all their visits weren't scheduled at any particular times . . . Dani told her that she'd pretended to be her mother, and had called around to the other families with dead pets (it was a small community) to find out what had happened on their interviews.

She figured out their pattern of visits . . . geography . . . by call number five. Then she'd calculated how many hours she'd have to torture her parents, before they'd be coming up her front drive.

She'd even built in their likely break times.

Hotch had to hand it to the girl, she was good. It was a miracle that they'd caught her so young. With skills and a pedigree like hers, she'd had the potential to have been a hall of famer in the serial killer trade.

Her parents would come close to that level of fame.

If only for the fact that married couples . . . who spawned their own murderous children . . . were somewhat of a rarity for their books. Hotch was hard pressed to think of another example at that moment.

And though he knew . . . without a shred of a doubt . . . that Dani's parents were creatures whose crimes had far surpassed hers and Darren's, he couldn't shake that faint dig knowing that those two people were dead SOLELY because he had called their house that morning. Though he knew that it was probably a good sign . . . if not a slightly masochistic one . . . that he was capable of feeling ANY level of grief, over those horrible people's deaths. Again . . . he took a slow breath . . . he wasn't a lost quite cause yet.

But he did know that it was time to get the fuck out of this cellar.

He'd cross checked his notes against the Polaroids still on the walls . . . Forensics would be collecting them . . . and the he'd seen them finish laying the grid of multi-colored strings and wooden posts.

The sonar team would begin looking for bodies now.

He could go.

/*/*/*/*/*/

Hotch stepped out onto the sagging front porch, and put his glove clad hand up on the door jamb to brace himself. Then he pulled off his booties and dumped them into the barrel that had been placed there specifically for that purpose.

After the booties went in, he threw in his mask, and then first one glove . . . and then the other.

When they left in the morning, the Forensics team would dispose of everything as part of the biohazard cleanup. That was one of the pluses of always being on the visiting team.

All of the physical clean-up was handled by the locals.

Which was particularly fortunate at the moment, because as Hotch checked the time, he saw that it was now closing in on eleven pm. And after a sixteen plus hour day immersed in this world of death and depravity, he wasn't in the mood to do anything besides take a hot shower and go to bed.

And maybe try to get a bite to eat somewhere in there too.

His nose wrinkled at the lingering smell on his clothes . . . but something vegetarian. He was going to be off meat for a few days at least.

But . . . he took a slow breath . . . that was neither here nor there. At the moment all he wanted was to figure out how the hell they were getting back to the Dragonfly. With their car totaled, he and Emily were going to be dependent on someone from one of these other departments or agencies giving them a ride.

Great . . . Hotch scrubbed his hands down his face . . . that's just what he wanted to do at the crack of midnight, start begging strangers for a lift.

'_All right just suck it up Aaron,'_ he thought with a neck roll as he looked out over the crammed lot of emergency vehicles, _'it's hardly the worst thing that you've had to deal with today.'_

So first things first, he told himself, just find Emily. And then find a way back to Stars Hollow.

Hopefully before morning.

Hotch squinted as he looked out into the artificial daylight. Though he knew it was technically pitch black, the State Police had set up enough portable sodium lights to illuminate the whole length of the front yard, ten feet in any direction going into the woods, and the entire length of the rutted driveway. But even with that degree of brightness, trying to find a familiar face in the mess of strangers hovering about was not easy.

There were just so many people.

But finally Hotch's eyes widened when he caught sight of the one pretty face that he was looking for. She was sitting cross legged on the hood of a blue, four door sedan. Hotch had no idea who it belonged to, but he presumed that Emily did. Because it was generally considered poor manners to climb around on the hoods of strangers' cars.

Especially when all of the strangers in the vicinity were carrying guns.

So Hotch took a breath and started down the steps.

The Ford was parked near the outer edge of the dozen or so marked and unmarked, cruisers, vans and SUVs lining the property. And with so many vehicles to maneuver around, it took him maybe a minute or two to cut across the yard.

But before he'd even reached the car, Emily had raised her head. And seeing him coming over, she slowly began to slide down off the hood.

He walked up just when her feet were dropping to the unpaved ground.

And seeing her stumble slightly . . . one of her boots had half landed in a chuck hole . . . he quickly put his hand out to steady her.

"Thanks," came Emily's soft murmur as he silently guided her around to the side of the car. "My legs are getting a little stiff in the cold." Then she dug her hand into her pants pocket and pulled out a key ring.

It had just one key on it.

"The car's for us." She said with a jerk towards the driver's side door a few feet away, "Agent Edelstein said we could keep it until we go home. His people doubled up when they left here a few minutes ago."

Then a touch of bitterness came into her tone.

"I think they figured that this way nobody would get stuck having to drive us back to the inn."

Though part of Emily knew that the gesture . . . giving them their own car . . . was in principle a 'nice' one, she just wasn't overall feeling particularly charitable in her thoughts at the moment. She was actually feeling like she wanted to throw up. Or perhaps sob in the bathtub for an hour.

Just anything to get this poison out of her system.

This terrible place, and these terrible people, she'd had enough. She'd enough of all of it. Them. Everything.

She just wanted to go home.

All she was praying for was to keep it together until they got back to the inn . . . or at least out of the driveway.

She didn't want to lose in front of anyone.

Hotch nodded as he took the key from Emily's hand.

"Ah, okay. Well either way, that was nice of them."

Though Emily was right, it probably was a bit self-serving too, but that didn't matter. As long as he didn't have to beg anyone for a ride, that was good enough.

So as Emily headed around the front of the car, Hotch stepped over and opened the driver's side door. He slid in onto the bench seat. A second later . . . just as he was putting the key in the ignition . . . Emily did the same from the other side.

Even after they'd pulled both their doors shut, the four little overhead dome lights stayed on for a moment. And looking across the front seat, Hotch's eyes flickered worriedly over Emily's face. Her features were tight.

And she was much too pale.

He knew that she was tired and stressed . . . any one of the things she'd dealt with that day could have been enough to knock her on her ass . . . but he was just worried about her shutting down again like she had that morning. The day had been just been too much for anyone, even for someone as strong as Emily, to mentally process.

They were going to have to have a conversation at some point.

But he knew that this wasn't the place to get it into anything with her. So when the overhead lights blinked off, he put a pin in his worries.

He just had to keep it professional until they got back to the Dragonfly.

So he slipped on his seat belt, took a breath and put the car in gear.

After he'd maneuvered around the two cruisers parked in their immediate vicinity, he passed the sheriff's checkpoint set at the top of the driveway . . . aka Pearberry Lane, which possessed just the one house . . . and then started down towards the main road.

A few seconds . . . and a lot of swirled up dust later . . . they cleared the second checkpoint at the bottom of the drive.

There was a cordon up there, and they passed a group of news vans . . . most were Connecticut affiliates, but one was from New York . . . reporters, and general gawkers trying to see what was happening up at the house. Hotch knew that the sheriff had given a general briefing at ten. But with so many people working the crime scene, Hotch also was sure that at least some of the gory details had already spread beyond the yellow tape.

In a county as small as this one, by morning half the little towns in the area would probably know as much about the case as he did.

With a sigh, Hotch turned left heading away from the vultures that had arrived to pick the carrion. Slowly he drove by the random scattering of isolated houses and far placed street lights that passed as a 'neighborhood.' Then a couple minutes later he turned left again.

Now they were off into the darkness of one of the back roads.

Once they were completely alone . . . even the moonlight was being blocked out by the overhanging trees . . . out of the corner of his eye, Hotch saw Emily slump against the passenger door.

Then she laid her head against the glass.

When he glanced over again, in the glow of the dashboard lights, he could see that her hands had begun twisting in her lap.

And he so badly wanted to reach over and take one.

But he didn't.

Though he had on more than one occasion held Emily Prentiss' hand to provide comfort either to her, or to himself, he was afraid of breaking her composure . . . however much was left . . . if he touched her now. So again he told himself to just wait until they reached the Dragonfly. It would only be another fifteen or twenty minutes.

That wasn't so long.

But as Hotch looked over again at Emily's twisting hands and broken slump, he realized that twenty minutes was going to be entirely too long. And with just two lanes of straight road, and no traffic in sight, Hotch decided to try and shave those fifteen to twenty minutes down to ten or twelve.

So he put his foot down on the accelerator.

But then he caught sight of a glint off in the trees . . . eyes. Specifically deer eyes.

They were reflecting off the headlights.

And then Hotch remembered that deserted back roads were a favorite place for deer to wander out into. He pulled his foot back.

Regardless of either of their mental states, clearly a twenty minute car ride was better than them running into a deer going seventy miles per hour.

Still though, once the car dropped back down to the posted thirty-five mph, Hotch let out a faintly disgusted huff. Then he let his gaze flicker back across the front seat again. He was just in time to see Emily wiping her hand across her face.

She was crying.

Oh . . . he felt a dig in his chest as his eyes snapped back to the road . . . damn it.

For a moment he wasn't sure what to do. With the way her body was angled away from his, he knew that she was trying to keep her tears from his view. Which was fine, he respected that. But seriously, what kind of an asshole would he be, if he actually SAW that she was crying, and still didn't do anything at all to help her?

A pretty huge one.

Still though, he didn't know if she would appreciate him calling attention to her breakdown. He decided to give it another minute to see if she pulled herself together.

So with his jaw grinding, he stared out the front windshield, watching the bugs smash into it.

Their headlights were the only illumination for miles in any direction. And without street or city lights, and the trees masking the stars, their surroundings were nearly pitch.

It was somewhat apropos given their moods at the moment.

Just then, Hotch noticed that one of Emily's hands had loosened from the knot in her lap. It had fallen down onto the seat next to her. And though it was still curled into a fist, it was now just a few inches away from him.

He could easily touch it.

He bit his lip, looked back out the front windshield, and then back over to this kind, sweet, woman who'd just had one of the worst days on the job, that his recent memories could recall her having.

Oh . . . his jaw snapped . . . fuck it.

With the decision made to do what he could for her now . . . they could still talk later . . . Hotch blindly reached out and across the seat. When his hand bumped into hers, he risked a quick glance down to see one set of fingers in relation to the others.

Then he tangled the two sets together.

He could feel the familiar softness of her skin, and the delicate bones in her fingers and wrist. Again, it wasn't the first time that he had held Emily's hand, but he was starting to wonder at what point he began to map it in his own mind.

That he could now identify the feel of it even in the dark.

It was a thought for another day . . . or perhaps a thought best simply pushed away . . . so he just focused on stroking his thumb along the inside of her wrist. Slowly, back and forth, trying to sooth with his touch, something that he knew really couldn't be fixed at all.

But he had to at least try.

He just wanted her to know that he was there . . . and that he cared that she was sad.

And that she wasn't alone in the dark.

Mostly he was just so afraid of her sinking back into that terrible depression from earlier in the day. And as he saw her free hand curl up right before she pressed her fist to her mouth, he knew then that she was trying to stifle a sob.

Without a word, he hit the directional and eased them over to the side of the road.

Then he put on the hazards, and put the car in park.

With the engine noise now quieted, even with the windows up, the sounds of the forest were much clearer.

As was the erratic breathing from the woman beside him.

With his right hand still holding hers, he reached over with his left to undo his seat belt. Then he reached a little farther and undid hers as well.

And though she half mumbled/half sobbed, an "I'm fine." He simply ignored it as he turned and reached across the front seat.

He shifted a little closer, then he tugged her over and against his chest.

As she began to sob into his jacket, he heard a muffled, "please don't tell anyone I cried on duty."

And he felt a fresh ache in his stomach . . . why would she even feel the need to make the request? Did she believe that their relationship was that one sided? That he didn't respect the bond that they had formed?

Did she think that he would really betray her like that?

They were questions that he wanted to ask. But as he rubbed his hand up and down her back, and felt her slim frame shaking with the continuous sobs, he knew that he couldn't.

This wasn't about him.

Still though, he needed to respond to what she'd said. She'd made a request.

And he needed to answer it.

"Prentiss," he murmured softly against her hair, trying to keep the hurt out of his tone, "I would never tell anyone about this. You've certainly kept enough of my secrets. I hope you know that I would never betray any of yours."

Emily sniffled and leaned back, scrubbing her hand across her face. Even in the semi-dark she could see the crease in Hotch's brow, and how he was biting his lip. And feeling a pang of guilt for hurting him when he was just trying to help her, she reached out and patted his chest.

"I do know that," she said with another sniffle, "I'm sorry. I'm just upset. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings."

Then before he could respond . . . she knew that he'd just lie and say that he wasn't hurt when he clearly was . . . she moved in to wrap her arms around his neck, pulling him even closer than they'd been a moment ago.

"Thanks for stopping."

The words were thick with emotion and muffled into the collar of his jacket, but still, Hotch understood Emily just fine all the same.

"Of course," he whispered back with a tight squeeze, "anything you need Prentiss. We'll stay until you're ready to go."

Then he took a breath, and turned his face back into her soft hair, inhaling the remnants of her morning routine. The scent of her shampoo which had become so familiar these last few years, it was now a sort of comfort in and of itself. And underneath that familiar scent, was a soapy smell that was new. It smelled like lavender and mint.

It was from the Dragonfly, he realized, one of the samples in the bathrooms. Now he'd associate that with Emily too.

He closed his eyes and he breathed her in. Not just the physical scent that brought him comfort, but also the grief and the pain and the loss. It was hers, and it was his.

It was theirs to share.

And that's how they ended up spending ten minutes sitting in the Connecticut woods. He just held her until she was done crying, then he held her until her breathing had evened out. And he told himself that he was doing it just for her. Because he owed her, and because she needed someone to look after her.

But that was a lie.

He was doing it for himself too . . . he needed someone to look after _him_. And holding Emily helped fill a little of that emptiness in his own soul, it pushed a little of the blackness away. She had been his touchstone through the worst days of his divorce, and in many ways he felt . . . especially in moments like this . . . that she was one of his few connections to his old life. Not that Emily reminded him of Haley, it wasn't that, but more of a world where a soft touch and a sweet smile, were gifts that he was given all the time. They were gifts that brought him happiness. That made his days bearable.

That was back when he had someone who loved him.

It seemed so long ago.

Which was why he really didn't want to Emily go. So when she finally took a deep breath . . . and he felt her begin to loosen her hold . . . he steeled himself for the pain of her pulling away.

It was one more hit in a night where he'd already been pummeled into the ground.

Then she was looking up at him, and Hotch pushed aside that kick in his gut to focus on her . . . because that's what he did. He always pushed his needs to the bottom of the list.

And he did that every damn day of his life.

"Do you feel better?"

His words were gentle, as was his touch when his fingers moved to brush the strands of hair back from her wet face. And she nodded. And even gave him a little smile.

"Yeah," Emily sniffed and wiped her nose with the back of her hand, "I do. Thanks. This day, being in that house, it's been like," she swallowed, "breathing in poison. It was in my head, and my chest," her voice started to thicken again, "it made them hurt. And it made my stomach hurt. But now," she took a shallow breath, "it's not quite so bad."

And then she sniffled again, and gave him another small, watery smile.

"You made it better."

When she and Hotch connected . . . as they were now . . . Emily found that the comfort that she could get from him, was very different than anything that she gained from her relationships with the others on the team. Ironically the others . . . even Dave . . . she considered more traditionally 'friends,' but Hotch was something else entirely. Something more . . . and something less.

But he'd always been something special.

But whatever he was, her continuing effort to try and label their relationship . . . to put it into one of her boxes and tuck it away . . . always left her coming up short. Because mostly though, as she saw him give her a faint smile right before he patted her hand, she was just glad that he was in her life.

Though she thought that it was terrible that they could only really connect this way, this personally, when one of them was sad.

Or broken.

And right now she was sad, and he was broken. Though of course he would deny that too. But she'd seen it in his eyes when he carried that little boy downstairs. And she wished that there was something that she could do for him . . . something like he had just done for her . . . but she wasn't sure if he would actually allow it.

Even when he would make the effort to extend himself for her, he was always so careful and tried so hard, to remain stoic. He kept his real feelings . . . his real pain . . . to himself.

He'd been like that from the beginning.

But as she saw him looking at her in the faint light, with his teeth sinking into his lip, she could suddenly see what he usually kept hidden. All of that pain and misery, it was clear on his face.

His mask had slipped.

Feeling her own features twisting in sympathy, she reached out and touched his cheek. Then she cupped his jaw with her palm. And rather than pulling away as he usually would when she tried to get him to open up, he stayed perfectly still. A moment later he winced and his eyes fell shut.

And hers started to burn again.

"What can I do?" She asked with a catch in her voice.

She saw him swallow, and then slowly he shook his head.

"I'm okay," he whispered, as his eyes slowly opened again, "I just needed a second."

For a moment Emily stared at him, her palm still cupping his jaw, her thumb stroking along his cheek. Finally she took a breath and gave him a sad smile.

"You're a terrible liar."

Then she leaned up and kissed his forehead.

"If you want to talk," she murmured against his skin, "I'm always here." She leaned back, another sad smile touching her lips as she patted his cheek.

"I'm good for hugs too." Then she sighed and turned to get a tissue from the console. "I know you don't do hugs though." She looked back up at him, "but you should," she continued softly while wiping her face, "they make you feel better."

Hotch's teeth were sinking into his lower lip as he watched Emily dabbing at her teary, makeup smeared face.

He so badly wanted to say something. To talk to her like she told him that he could. To tell her all of the things that were weighing on his soul. How Andy had looked like Jack. And how his chest ached when he had listened to Dani tell her story.

And how he had wanted to throw up when she told them about the baskets.

But mostly he wanted to tell Emily that he did do hugs. And that he knew that they made you feel better. And he knew that because he used to hug his wife all the time. And his boy.

And his mom when he was little.

But he didn't have anyone to hug anymore. He was alone now.

Most of the time anyway.

So he did the best that he could, with the coping mechanisms he had left . . . repression, anger, and denial. All ruthlessly applied, in equal parts.

And he wanted to tell Emily that he knew that they weren't working. That he wasn't doing well. That this world they that lived in was just too dark and too ugly.

Just too much.

He couldn't do it all alone.

But he didn't say any of those things. Instead he took a breath. Then he reached down and took a clean tissue from the little pack between them.

He looked back up at Emily.

"I'll get it."

His words were a whisper as he brushed her fingers away.

It was all that he could for her, for himself. It was all the contact that he had left. And he didn't know if she understood that. But either way, she sat quietly while his fingers pressed into her jaw, and he gently dabbed and smoothed the eyeliner and mascara smeared around her eyes.

He was trying to make it pretty again.

Emily's eyes began to burn once more while watching Hotch focused so intently on fixing her make up.

Sometimes he was so very sweet, and so very sad, that her heart ached for him. And when he was done and leaned back, his fingers fell from her cheek.

She caught them as they fell.

Then she lifted them back up, and pressed her lips to the back of his hand. She kissed it. And when she looked up at him, his eyes were watering.

She'd broken through a wall.

It was progress.

So even as he tried to blink away the tears and turn his attention back to the car, she kept his hand clenched in hers. Though she did let go for a moment while they redid their seat belts and he shifted the ignition back into Drive.

But once they were on the road again, she reached over and touched his hand where it was resting on his thigh. She left her fingers there, stroking up and down on the small patch of skin below his cuff.

He was trying to pretend like he too busy driving to notice, but she saw him swallow and blink.

And after a minute . . . a minute when she was sure he was debating with himself . . . he finally turned his hand over, and caught her fingers in his. He linked them together.

It wasn't a hug.

But again, it was progress.

So she pulled their joined hands down and over to her lap. Then she pressed them against her stomach, and with her free hand as a bookend, she held them close.

There was a warmth and an intimacy from the act. And she did it partly as a comfort for him, and partly as a comfort for her, but mostly it was a reminder for them both.

They weren't alone.

And when Hotch put down the windows, and the cool night air filled the car, she just tightened her grasp.

"Thanks," he finally whispered. And her eyes crinkled faintly right before she murmured back.

"Just drive."

She heard him huff, and his hand squeezed hers for a moment. And though he again loosened his grasp, her smaller hand stayed enveloped in his larger one.

They didn't talk again for the rest of the trip.

* * *

_A/N 2: Yes, I know I've put a butchering pedophile in Stars Hollow and completely tainted the picnic basket ritual. Oh well :) Seriously, though, too many weirdos in that town for there not to be a felon or two. I'm so much more UNcomfortable with people in small towns versus big cities simply because people DO trust strangers in small communities, and, well, you shouldn't. Nobody knows what the hell anybody's doing anywhere. It's always the people on the news saying "things like this just don't happen in our community" that clues me in to something particularly horrific, happening right there in that community._

_But baskets and ribbons were mentioned in both the lighter and darker elements of the earlier chapters here, and it was always the plan to pull them together. Though I still felt like a really twisted a-hole when I actually wrote the lines in this chapter :)_

_On the less horrible side, moving towards their bonding, keep in mind this is a stage in their relationship that none of my other stories have really explored that closely. The in between from the closeness they'd achieved during his divorce, and then the later friendship that they'd built over the summer. So here, the connection exists, but the words, and the verbal sharing, don't. But they're still trying to now get through this case together. We'll see how that pans out._

_Next update in a few days. And if you see any typos on this one, I'll get them when I read it over again Monday night. It was 13,000 words, so an untainted post, is a slim shot :)_

_And thank you everyone for the feedback, and for the nominations! Voting is now open on the Profiler's Choice Awards :)_


	11. The Deep Ocean

**Author's Note: **Thanks very much everybody for the feedback on the last chapter :) I am going to try to get some notes out after this post is up.

Continuing now with them arriving back at the Dragonfly. The night's not over yet, and we will have some twists coming ;)

* * *

**The Deep Ocean**

They got back to the Dragonfly just before 11:30 pm.

For a moment after Hotch turned the engine off, he and Emily stayed there sitting in the dark. He was listening to the silence, and thinking about the day, and dreading the moment that was coming next.

The moment when she let go of his hand.

She'd been clutching it, and stroking her finger along his palm, since they'd stopped in the woods. It was the longest he'd had physical contact with anyone, in over a year. The last time he was probably holding his wife in bed, and tonight Emily was just holding his hand in the car. But he'd had no idea how much that small act could mean. That touch. It was a life preserver.

And he was a drowning man.

And he was wondering what the hell he was going to do . . . how he was going to stay afloat . . . once she let go. And he knew she'd be letting go soon. Because soon it would become awkward, and they'd both feel strange. And then everything . . . this tiny glimpse of the world that had been lost to him . . . it would be ruined. He'd be all alone.

Again.

Then finally the moment came. The backs of his fingers were pressed against her mid-section, and he could feel the hardening of the muscles in her abdomen.

Tension filling her body.

She took a breath . . . so did he . . . and when she released hers, she abruptly let his hand go. But she didn't _just_ let it go, she actually flung it away.

Like she was sick of him.

A stab of pain filled his chest. And before Hotch could even pull his hand back to his side of the car, Emily's seat belt was snapping back. Then she was climbing out of the sedan, and her door was slamming shut, and a pit had filled his stomach.

_What the hell had just happened?_

Feeling a terrible . . . and unexpected . . . wave of panic that Emily was upset with him, and apparently also running away from him(!), Hotch hurriedly unclicked his own belt. He could see in the rearview mirror that she was just clearing . . . at a good clip . . . the back side of the car next to them. If he didn't move fast . . . he grabbed the keys from the ignition . . . she'd reach the steps of the inn, before he'd even gotten as far as she had now.

So with that panic intensifying with each second passing, Hotch flung his door open.

It was time to start trying again.

"Prentiss," he was calling across the deserted parking lot even as he scrambled out, "please wait!"

Though he was unsure what her reaction would be to his request, to Hotch's undying relief, Emily actually froze at the sound of his voice. And though she was turned away with her head down and face hidden, he could still see her arms come up to wrap around herself.

It was a defensive move.

And that's how he took it. And he took it with another stab in his chest. But as he hurried up behind her, about to ask why she was so upset with him, that's when he noticed his breath in front of him.

It was a tiny puff of white.

In this part of the country, the night air was still cold in early Spring. And for a second he started to feel a tiny bit better about her stance.

Maybe she was just trying to warm up.

But his theory was shot to hell when her shoulders began to shake. And they were shaking just like they had been in the car.

When she'd had her breakdown.

Oh fuck . . . he suddenly realized with a wave of self-disgust at his own pathetic narcissism . . . she was crying. When she'd rushed out, he'd assumed that she was running away from him. But no, she was just trying to get to her room before she lost it again.

And now he felt like a complete tool for stopping her.

Hell, he WAS a complete tool for stopping her! That point was definitely not in dispute. But because he had already stopped her . . . and because she _had_ chosen to hold his hand all the way back to the inn . . . as he stepped up behind her with his stomach now churning in sympathy, he decided to do something that he wouldn't ordinarily feel comfortable doing. Especially out in public.

Slip his arm around her shoulders.

Then he started them walking again. Neither of them spoke, and Emily kept her head down, and her arms wrapped tightly around herself.

But after a few more steps, another car length, he felt her body language shift. The tension drained. And then she was leaning against his side.

His eyes fell shut for a second.

Okay . . . he let out a tiny breath of relief . . . thank God. If for the first time in a year he attempted to make a real connection with another person, and he'd fucked it up that badly in the space of just a half an hour, he was pretty sure that would have been the LAST time he attempted that kind of connection again.

At least for a long while.

But as long as he had this small tether now linking him to Emily, he did hate to let it . . . her . . . go again. So he kept her tucked as close as he could, while they crossed through the rest of the parking lot, and slowly walked up the front steps of the inn.

Then they stopped.

And knowing that he couldn't be seen touching her like that inside . . . God only knew who they could run into . . . reluctantly, he dropped his arm down. Then he tipped his head to catch her eyes.

Fortunately . . . for the little vice on his chest . . . no tears.

"Are you okay?' He whispered with a light squeeze of her shoulder.

She nodded.

"Yeah," Emily swallowed, "just suddenly felt a little claustrophobic back there." Her eyes came up to lock on to his, "and I'm really hoping nobody else is up right now."

Right before she got out of the car, she'd felt an overwhelming wave of panic and dread. And with it came that cloying, sickening smell of death and terror that they'd encountered in the cellar.

It had all washed over her again.

She'd had to bolt or she would have lost it completely. And even though she had all of that trauma pushed down under lock and key again . . . Hotch being sweet and attentive had helped with that endeavor . . . she still didn't want to see anyone else before bed.

Not even the desk clerk.

"Right," Hotch sucked in a breath as Emily turned towards the door, "me too."

Unfortunately . . . as was pretty much evidenced by their entire day so far . . . luck was not really on their side. Because when Hotch pushed back the door, and followed Emily into the lobby, he saw a small crowd of people talking in the middle of the room.

And then they stopped talking.

And he knew instantly why those people were there. Because of the news. Because of them.

The FBI agents that had brought death to their little town.

And for a moment everyone was frozen in tableau, like a play that had been interrupted. Hotch's hands had clenched into fists, and he could feel the waves of anxiety rolling off of Emily at his side. They were both waiting for the bombardment of questions about what had happened out at that house in the woods.

Questions that neither of them had any intention of answering.

Also though, Hotch knew that he was about one stressor away from throwing someone through a wall. Seriously God help that dipshit Frenchman if he suddenly appeared in the lobby.

So in the hopes of avoiding a PR nightmare . . . and possible battery charges . . . Hotch grabbed Emily's forearm and started walking again.

He was trying to hustle them around the group, before anyone in the group opened their mouths to speak. But he was stopped almost immediately after he began moving, by a voice. Or more specifically by the sound of the voice.

There were tears in it.

"Did you get all of them? Is it safe?"

Feeling his fingers digging into Emily's jacket, slowly, Hotch turned back. His dark eyes immediately locked onto a pair of frightened blue ones staring up at him.

It was a girl. Probably in her mid-twenties, soft features. Pretty, dark hair . . . nice figure. He had case files filled with pictures of girls like her.

Most of them were dead now.

And this girl in front of him, this girl that could be in one of his files . . . that could be lying in the ground in that basement that he had just left . . . he could see that she was scared. And unlike the dead girls in the ground and in his folders, he could actually do something to comfort this one.

The others were all beyond him now.

So he pushed aside his own exhaustion, and his own anxiety and stress from the day. Then he slowly exhaled, and let go of Emily's arm.

He couldn't use her as a crutch.

"Yes," he nodded, with his eyes still locked onto the younger woman's, "it's safe. All of the perpetrators are either dead or in custody." Then his gaze shifted to take in the larger group. A baker's dozen of frightened souls.

And he was trying to abandon them in the lobby.

Christ.

"Agent Prentiss and I will be here for another day," he added quietly, trying to assuage his own guilt at his behavior, "but that's only to assist with some follow-up items. I _assure_ you," he gave them all a hard look, "we are pursuing NO other suspects. This case is closed."

The tension on the faces in the crowd seemed to lessen with that pronouncement. And fortunately . . . miraculously . . . nobody else seemed to have any other questions.

So Hotch cleared his throat.

"Now," he gestured towards Emily and then the staircase, "we're going to our rooms, so I would suggest that you all do the same. It's late, and even if you're following the case, there won't be any more news conferences tonight."

Though Hotch would have expected that to be the clue for the group to break up, even after he suggested they go to bed, the crowd still stood there. Almost like sheep that had been abandoned by the shepherd. And Hotch didn't quite know what to do with them. They weren't his sheep.

He'd just stumbled over the flock in the lobby.

And he was about to just give in and ask if they had any other questions . . . though he REALLY did not want to do that . . . when finally the girl with the blue eyes looked back up at him. She gave him a little smile and a nod.

"Thank you Agent Hotchner. Thank you very much."

It was all she said. Then she broke away from the group, and began walking over to the stairs.

The others immediately followed.

As they walked way, he briefly wondered how it was that this young woman had become their de facto leader. Perhaps it was simply because she was the only one that had dared to speak to him.

And seeing her start up the staircase, he suddenly processed that she'd called him by name.

How the hell had she known his name?

But then he realized that in a town this size . . . a town that didn't even seem to have their own dedicated police officer . . . that his and Emily's names and occupation had probably become common knowledge the moment that they had signed the hotel register. Or perhaps even the morning they'd stopped into the diner.

There were obviously no shortage of town criers anywhere in Stars Hollow.

It was still disconcerting though. It always made him uncomfortable when people knew him and he didn't know them.

In his line of work, strangers couldn't be trusted.

With that thought in mind, Hotch watched the last of the crowd disappear up the staircase. He let out a weary sigh.

A second later he felt Emily's small hand on his back.

"You made them feel better." She murmured softly, "they'll sleep tonight, even if we won't."

Then she patted his back, and her hand fell away and she started over to the stairs.

His jaw began twisting again, because again he wanted to speak. To tell her the things he wanted to say in the car. Instead he took a breath . . . and followed after her.

Apparently she had become his shepherd.

They gave the other guests a minute or so to get upstairs and into their rooms. But once Hotch had heard what sounded like the last door close, he and Emily finally began to walk up.

But then hearing a slight hiss from his side, Hotch looked down to see Emily's face was twisted in pain.

His own mental distractions were forgotten as he reached out to touch her arm. And he was just about to ask her what was wrong, when he noticed how she was moving.

With her hand now resting low on her right side.

"Just a spasm," Emily murmured tightly to the question she knew Hotch was about to ask. "There was a lot of twisting getting out of that car, and the cold air got my muscles a bit tight." She bit down hard on her lip, pausing for a second to rub her back, "I just need to take a hot shower and some Motrin before bed."

That should fix it. It probably wouldn't even be this bad right now, if not for her time sitting out in the yard waiting for Hotch. The air had a definite chill to it even then.

It had settled in her bones.

With his hand still resting on her arm, Hotch looked down at Emily. Then he looked back up the lengthy of the staircase that they needed to climb.

There were at least twelve steps left.

And that was a lot of steps to navigate with a muscle spasm in your back. And knowing that they were completely alone . . . the night clerk was watching TV off in the back room off the lobby . . . Hotch decided to shuffle another step back into his old world.

To look after Emily not just because he wanted to keep strengthening that bond, but also because it was the right thing to do.

And for once . . . he moved his arm down and around her waist . . . the right thing didn't seem like penance for old sins. No, as he tucked her against his side, it was more like a reward for current suffering.

On both sides.

Still though, he waited a moment, waited for the line in her brow to even out, and for her teeth to stop digging into her lip. And once he was sure that the spasm had passed . . . confirmed by her little nod and a slow exhale . . . they started up the stairs again.

They'd only taken one more step before Emily unexpectedly tipped her head over, and rested it on his chest. She hadn't done that in months. Since that night at Smokey's.

The night he'd signed his divorce papers.

"Thanks," she whispered.

And though he felt his eyes stinging in response to both her gratitude and her touch . . . the day had been too long, and his memories longer still . . . Hotch didn't answer her beyond a light tap to the hip. Just an acknowledgement that she'd spoken.

That was all.

Because it had been some months since they were this physically demonstrative with one another. He was just getting used to it again.

But really, more specifically . . . he conscience corrected . . . it had been some months since _he_ was this demonstrative with _her_. That was what he was getting used to. Because for the last year, Emily had actually been fairly open and expressive with him. And over the last six months, her outward PHYSICAL affection for him had increased as well. So he wasn't getting used to her touching him, he was getting used to it being OKAY for her to touch him.

He was the one with the issues.

In every scenario, with every person in his life, he was always the one with the issues. And he was kind of tired of holding that role.

In fact, he was kind of tired of a lot of things in his life.

Most of those things though, he was trying not to think about right then. He was just trying to focus on getting them up to their rooms.

It was a bigger task than he would have expected.

Because by the time they got to the top of the staircase . . . a staircase which somehow seemed much steeper than it had the day before . . . Hotch couldn't deny that not only was he pulling Emily along, but he was feeling a drag in his own steps as well.

But of course that probably wasn't so unexpected.

He was getting old. And with the bumper cars in the front yard of Pearberry, and then the frantic efforts to extricate themselves from the wreck before Darren had finished them off, the day had been almost as physically exhausting, as it was mentally.

He too was going to need a hot shower and some Motrin before bed.

So even when they were off the stairs, and had started down the hall, they were both still moving pretty slowly. Fortunately nobody else was around to see them.

It certainly wasn't a very confidence inspiring view of the Bureau's 'elite.'

And when they finally turned the corner, and got to their rooms on the back side of the inn, Emily took a breath. Then she straightened up. And just like down in the car, Hotch knew that the time had come to let her go.

But this time he hesitated. He kept his arm looped around her waist.

He wanted to see what she would do.

What she did was tip her head back. She looked up at him, and he looked down at her . . . and the moment went on. They were having one of their conversations where they talked, though no words were spoken at all. He used to do that with his wife too.

Finally Emily's expression softened right before she leaned up to kiss his cheek.

"G'night."

Her words were a whisper against his skin.

Hotch closed his eyes for a moment to swallow down the lump forming in his throat.

"Yeah," he murmured back, "good night."

Then he let her go.

And he started to walk away, trying to find a way to keep his dignity intact in the process. So he focused his attention on pulling the key card from his pocket.

It was something that he needed to do, but it was also something that didn't require quite as much attention as he was letting it appear that it did.

Like he was going to use it to crack a safe or something.

But then he noticed that Emily was fumbling with her key card. She'd just pulled it out, and he saw her swipe it once . . . and the light stayed red. And seeing her jaw tighten, he turned back around completely.

Emily hated the cards, she missed real keys, but ordinarily it was a point of pride for her that she get the lock to work by herself. But he knew that this was definitely one night, where she wasn't in the mood for the aggravation. So he took the four steps back down the hall, and pulled the card out of her fingers. Then he ran it through again.

A split second later the lock turned green, and the door popped open with a click.

He slipped the card back into her hand.

"You just have to do it fast," he said softly.

The words were spoken while he was already turning to walk back over to his own room. When he got there he swiped his lock, and pushed the door open. He looked back to see Emily with her hand on the open doorjamb, just staring at him.

His jaw twisted. Still so many things on the tip of his tongue . . . he settled on the most obvious.

"You do know that I'm not going into my room, before you go into yours, right?"

Hearing Hotch's usual, dry, tone, Emily gave him a faint . . . soft . . . smile.

"I know. You'd never leave a lady out alone."

Then she raised her hand good night, and turned to slip inside her room.

Her fingers had already flipped the overhead light switch, before she'd completely stepped over the threshold.

With a soul weary sigh, she pushed the door shut, turned the lock and slid the deadbolt until it clicked. And she took those steps like she breathed . . . automatically. It was what she did at home, on the road, on vacation . . . everywhere she went. Once she was in a space that could be secured, the muscle memory kicked in.

And she locked the world out.

Some might see it as locking _herself_ in . . . as though that were better . . . but really that spin on her actions would be disingenuous. The locks weren't about her, they were never about her, or her personal fears. The locks were always about the world.

And the need to keep it at bay.

Not that the world necessarily abided by those locks. Or those doors. It usually still followed her into her dreams. And tonight would be no different.

Actually . . . Emily's teeth started to grind together . . . tonight was probably going to be a God damn INVASION from the other side!

No, no, she thought with a shake of her head, she wasn't going to think about that yet. There would be plenty of time to wallow in the misery of the day, and the night, when she was staring blindly up at the ceiling, watching the three am shadows move across her hotel room.

So with the hope of at least temporarily clearing the day's trauma from her mind, Emily stood still for a moment, focusing her breaths and trying to find her center. It helped that the room she was attempting to decompress in, was so soothing.

The décor was soft and pretty.

And the décor, combined with the breathing technique, actually seemed to be working at first. Her anxiety level dropped a little, and the ball in her stomach eased up. But then she looked up, and her eyes caught on the elegant floral tapestry hanging on the far wall of the room.

It had a vein of pink thread winding through it.

Pink thread. Pink ribbons.

Pink bows.

SHIT!

With another shake of her head . . . though this one more violent than the first . . . Emily tried desperately to push off the terrible imagery that had begun to, again, flood her through mind.

But it was too late.

The animals, the little children, the torture devices . . . the pile of limbs sitting by the furnace. The look on Hotch's face when he was carrying that little boy down the stairs. All of it came back.

It was like drowning in hell.

Well, FUCK . . . Emily cursed as her eyes began to burn again . . . so much for decompressing.

So with her stomach once again churning with acid, and her heart once again aching with grief, she stepped away from the door and went over to turn on the TV.

Clearly the details of this case weren't going to fade just because she wanted them to fade. They were going to leave when THEY were God damn good and ready. And until they did . . . she started flipping channels on the remote . . . she needed some kind of a distraction. One of her nature shows.

That was her coping mechanism learned from Hotch.

And fortunately The Dragonfly had cable, so it only took her a few minutes to find the National Geographic channel. It was on a commercial when she clicked over, so while Emily waited for literally ANYTHING to come on that would help to sideline her brain, she began to slowly . . . and somewhat painfully . . . twist around to get her shirt pulled off.

Just as she slipped the torn, dirty, pine needle encrusted shirt over her head, the sounds of whale calls filled the room.

Oh good . . . she thought with a sigh . . . they were running something about the ocean.

Those were her favorite.

Feeling a bit of hope then that the whales would do their usual zen trick . . . or at the very least help her fall asleep before four am . . . she turned to fling her shirt her across the room.

Though she was aiming to toss it into the trash bucket . . . it wasn't worth salvaging . . . her aim was off by about a foot. And that was unusually bad 'shooting' for her. But she was blaming it on exhaustion . . . and the muscles that she'd 'overstretched' in her shoulder and side.

That was the last time she hoped to have to contort herself through a sliver of an open car door. At least at the time her body had been surging with adrenaline . . . though it had still hurt like a bitch . . . but now that the day was wrapping, not only was she mentally wiped, but her muscles were also starting to lock up on her.

Hence the spasm when she was walking up the stairs.

Christ . . . she thought with a slow roll of her neck . . . she really did need to find some Motrin. And she also needed to take that hot shower. And she REALLY needed to find something to eat!

But she didn't know what the hell to do first.

She decided to just keep pulling off her clothes in the hopes that the next decision would work itself out.

Sowith another wince she twisted her shoulders to slip off first one bra strap . . . and then the other. Funny . . . she thought while slipping the cups around so she could undo the hooks . . . how things you ordinarily do without even thinking, can suddenly become so very painful.

Like her job for instance.

Most days she got through it with a diet of repression, a shake of dark humor, and a dash of denial. But then there were days like today when the horror was all so bloody and visceral. And there was no repression, and there was no humor. The bra dropped to the floor.

There was only pain.

Her fingers moved up to glide over a dark bruise on her left breast . . . and not just the physical kind. There would be mental scars from this one. She was sure of it.

There was no way around that happening.

And all Emily wanted to do was get a brain wash to wipe the last thirty-six . . . horrific . . . hours, out of her mind. But with no white rabbits or magic potions to take, all that was left was the old standby, 'sucking it up.'

Right . . . she sighed . . . suck it up.

So she powered through, watching the whales swim while she continued with the unusually lengthy process of undressing.

Next off was her holster. She put it, and her gun within, down on the bed. And then while she tried to focus in on the soothing tones of the British narrator discussing baby belugas, Emily unbuckled her belt, and unzipped her pants.

A few seconds later, those items . . . plus her underwear . . . joined the mini-pile of clothes being strewn haphazardly across her hotel room. Nothing she was tossing was hitting her intended target. And though ordinarily she tried to be a little neater about that crap . . . she didn't want anybody busting in thinking she was a slob . . . at the moment she just didn't give a shit.

She'd get it all in the morning.

And once she was down to just her socks . . . and she took in the pine needles and dirt stuck to her legs and arms all the way up to her knees and elbows . . . as Emily had hoped, her next decision was made for her.

She needed to take the shower first.

And then after that she would scrounge up some pills. And then, oh . . . her eyes brightened slightly . . . she could swallow them down with those petit fours from Sookie. There were at least two left.

And that would be her 'something to eat.'

Now slightly distracted thinking about the little pastries that had tasted so good the night before, Emily started towards the bathroom.

As she went along, she was half hopping on one foot while trying to tug off the thick black knee socks she wore under her boots. They would be slippery on the tile, and so she wanted them off before she got to the bathroom door.

She didn't make the bathroom door.

With her muscles so tight, and her body just not as limber as it used to be . . . thirty-nine planetary rotations and counting . . . she lost her balance, and ended up tumbling down to the carpet in an undignified heap.

It was not a proud moment.

And though she fortunately missed . . . by literally a millimeter . . . cracking her head on the fine walnut dresser, as she fell, she did catch the back of her hand on the sharp corner that had just missed her temple.

A burst of pain exploded through the sensitive nerve endings.

FUCK ME!

Emily's jaw snapped shut as tears immediately sprung to her eyes.

_Christ Emily . . . she thought with disgust . . . why do you always have to be such a clumsy IDIOT?!_

The self-flagellation wasn't completely out of character, but ordinarily when it came to her general clumsiness . . . which was a bit of a running joke with everyone she'd EVER known . . . she did at least take that in better humor. At that moment though, she was too tired and sore and miserable to be a good sport about ANYTHING.

Most especially her own foibles.

So she lay there on the cornflower blue carpet, in a pathetic, naked, whimpering, lump. And she was down there for a good three or four minutes holding her throbbing hand to her chest, fighting back her tears, and cursing her shitty life.

The pain was quite real . . . she'd definitely hit a nerve cluster . . . but mostly she was just feeling sorry for herself. That was one thing that she didn't usually allow herself to do.

But tonight she decided to wallow.

Though she did try to at least keep the full on sobbing at bay. She'd done enough of that in the car, but at least back then though she'd had Hotch there with her.

Now she was all alone.

And with her eyes still puffy . . . she could feel them . . . and her face still sticky from the earlier tears . . . she could feel that too . . . she really didn't want to start all that crap up again.

Not right then anyway.

She was holding the flood back for the shower. That's where both the sound, and the evidence, would be washed away.

So once her hand had stopped throbbing, she wiped away the few stray tears that had slipped down her cheeks. Then she took a slow breath.

And then another.

And once she'd felt a level of rationality had been reached again, she twisted around and reached down to yank the cursed sock off her foot. Cursed because it was the reason she'd ended up on the carpet.

She whipped it angrily across the room.

Then she realized she'd flung it as though it wasn't an inanimate object, but a sentient one actually incapable of committing personal offense. Yeah . . . she rolled her eyes . . . okay, perhaps rationality was a relative thing. The logical thinking portion of her brain was clearly in for the night. But at least nobody else was there to see her take out her anger on a sock.

That was about as embarrassing as, well . . . she bit her lip . . . all the rest of her behavior over the last five minutes.

But not wanting to dwell on her mini mental breakdown . . . it wouldn't help anything . . . Emily took another breath and pushed herself up to her knees.

And then all fours.

Naked, dirty, and on all fours . . . she rolled her eyes again . . . yeah she'd definitely left her dignity at the door. But she decided she just didn't give a fuck about that either. As long as nobody was there to witness her humiliation, she was just going to file it away.

The Humiliation Box was regularly overflowing as it was.

So with a wince, she shuffled forward an inch on her hands and knees. And using the corner of the cedar chest that had left the throbbing red mark on her hand, she slowly pulled herself back to her feet.

For a moment she stood there, taking those slow, deep breaths again. Then she turned her head, and caught sight of herself in the bathroom mirror just through the doorway.

Her hair was a mess, her body hunched and bruised, her face flush, and her eyes bloodshot. And seeing what a pathetic mess she was . . . she suddenly felt very old.

And alone.

Very, very alone.

Christ.

Feeling another depressive wave lapping at her self-control, Emily tried to push those NEW negative thoughts back from wherever the hell they'd just risen up from.

_Just go get in the damn shower Em!_

Right . . . she staggered into the bathroom like a marathon runner at the end of the race . . . shower.

She just had to make sure not to slip on the soap.

*/*/*/*/*

Thirty plus minutes later, Emily reemerged from the bathroom wrapped up in an oversized, sunshine yellow bath towel. Her hair was now freshly washed and blown dry, and for the first time in almost twelve hours, she was clean and warm.

She was also notably less stiff . . . though only marginally less depressed . . . than when she'd gone into the bathroom.

The hot water had worked well on her sore muscles . . . most of them anyway, she still had a hell of a knot in her shoulder . . . but unfortunately letting her brain go to mush hadn't worked well on her mental state.

There were no belugas in the bathroom, so there was nothing to think about really, except for her day. But the day had already been running on a continuous loop in her mind anyway. So basically the only notable improvement to her circumstances, had been the shower itself, and the physical benefits that came with it.

That would have to be enough for now.

So with the sounds of a new documentary filling the room . . . the whales had given way to polar bears . . . she went over to the dresser. There she opened the box of pastries from the night before.

Oh, three left.

More than she'd thought.

She closed her eyes and sniffed . . . mmm, chocolate. The smell . . . surprisingly . . . actually did make her feel a little better. Must be some Pavlovian thing. So she opened her eyes and reached in the box.

She popped one little white square into her mouth, and slowly chewed and swallowed, letting the smooth chocolaty taste spread across her tongue, and hit all of her taste buds.

It was a damn good pastry.

And again, it made her feel a little better, like when she was smelling it. It wasn't an endorphin release really. For one thing the morsel hadn't actually hit her system yet, and for another she hadn't ingested enough for endorphins to really be a conversation point anyway. If you even GOT endorphins from chocolate. Hell, she couldn't remember.

But anyway . . . she refocused as she swallowed . . . perhaps it was just the memory of the last time that she'd had one of these little pastries, that was helping. She'd been over in Hotch's room then.

He was scolding her about getting chocolate on the bed.

Her eyes crinkled slightly . . . he was so funny sometimes. And maybe, if she could find some clothes to put on, she'd go knock on his door.

See if he wanted to split the rest of the petit fours with her.

After all . . . she reached for one of the water bottles on the dresser . . . he had to be starving too. Neither of them had eaten anything since Luke's that afternoon. And the idea of going over to see him now . . . just to see him period . . . actually cheered her up a bit more. So after she'd taken her drink, Emily dropped her damp body towel to the floor.

Then she walked over and started digging into her ready bag.

God only knew though what she was going to wear. She wasn't even sure she had any clothes to wear to BED, let alone to go out in the hallway, and 'visiting.' The problem was that last night's bedclothes were gross and smelly. She'd had a horrifically vivid nightmare about those dead animals in the freezer, and ended up sweating through both her nightshirt, and her pajama pants.

At four am she'd woken up and stripped out of everything but her underpants.

And then she forgot about the sweaty clothes, and left them in a tangled pile next to the bed. She'd remembered that in the shower. If she'd thought about it when she woke up, she would have at least rinsed out the nightshirt in the shower she'd taken that morning. But she hadn't thought about it then, and there was no way that she was putting those gross things back on now.

She'd just gotten all of her dirty clothes off.

But unfortunately . . . after digging for more than a minute, and dumping most of her bag on the floor, Emily realized that she had no other clean pajama pants or t-shirts with her. They were only supposed to be gone for a day, and her ready bag had been a little light when she left, having just come back from another out of town case.

And apparently . . . she stifled a grown when she got to the bottom of the bag . . . when she'd dumped her dirty laundry from _that_ trip, she'd forgotten to replace the stuff that she'd pulled out.

Crap.

And then Emily heard a knock on the door.

Her nose wrinkled as she looked down at her state of undress (no dress, she was completely naked) while cursing the fact that that she had no robe to pull on either. Given how little space there was in the ready bag, she only packed it maybe twice a year. Basically only if it was the dead of winter and she knew that they'd be going somewhere with temps in the sub-arctic range.

Stars Hollow didn't qualify.

And she unfortunately hadn't seen any complimentary robes in the bathroom . . . which was kind of unusual given it was a 'nice' place . . . but regardless, it appeared she had nothing clean to pull on except for the full suit and tank top that she had to wear the next day.

Again, crap.

And hearing another knock, Emily yelled a "one second Hotch" . . . she knew it was Hotch . . . while scurrying back into the bathroom to grab the other oversized, fluffy yellow bath towel off the stack on the vanity.

That one was totally dry. And fortunately . . . she shook it out . . . it was big enough to wrap around her almost twice.

So once she was completely covered . . . well, breasts to ass anyway . . . she hurried back out of the bathroom. She was tucking the little terry cloth flap into the front of her towel toga, as she called out again, "coming, coming."

When she stepped up to the door, she shot a quick look over to her pistol on the bed before making a perfunctory check of the peephole.

As expected . . . she starting undoing the chain and turning the lock . . . Hotch.

Only he would be knocking this late.

"Hey," Emily's voice was slightly breathless when she opened the door, "I was going to come see you."

His hair was also slightly damp, and he was also barefoot . . . though she could see that he at least still had had some pajamas left in his bag.

He was wearing plaid flannel pants . . . with his gun in the waistband . . . and a white t-shirt. So he was clearly ready for bed. And . . . she gave a subtle sniff . . . he smelled pretty amazing.

Though she tried to push that latter fact from her mind.

Given that she was standing there basically naked, it wasn't a helpful factoid at the moment.

"Uhh . . ."

Hotch's ability to speak a full sentence was momentarily derailed when he took in the soft curves in front of him.

Whoa.

It had been a VERY long time since he'd seen a body like Emily's. And seeing the curves of that body, and the bare flesh that came with it, was an incredibly nice, and EXTREMELY unexpected gift after a particular horrendous day.

So though he knew that he needed to say something . . . he was vaguely aware Emily had spoken when she'd opened the door . . . instead he found his eyes lingering on the smooth skin where her breasts were peeking out above the not quite big enough towel.

This was skin that he had never seen before.

He didn't think the sun had seen it before either.

It was a shade lighter than the flesh an inch above it. And it was so smooth and pristine that he was wondering what it felt like. If it was as silky soft as it looked.

_What the . . ._

Hotch blinked.

Okay, how the hell had he gotten on to THAT road! That was a BAD road! One he needed to get off of IMMEDIATELY!

His eyes snapped back up to Emily's face . . . it was the only safe place to look.

"I can come back."

Though he was feeling a bit fuzzy headed . . . it was now midnight, his brain was already fried from the case, and he now had a gorgeous, naked, towel clad woman standing in front of him . . . Hotch was proud to say that his voice didn't waiver.

Much.

"No, no, it's fine." Emily answered with a tired smile as she tipped her head to invite him in, "come on."

She started walking back towards the bed while turning to say over her shoulder.

"I'm up. Like I said, I was actually going to come see you. I mean, um," she made an awkward gesture towards her empty duffel, "after I found some clothes."

_God, it looked like a grenade went off in her room._

"Well," Hotch answered slowly while following Emily inside, "if you're sure." Then his eyebrow inched up slightly as he saw her walking away.

He was taking in her bare shoulders, and bare legs . . . and bare thighs . . . and above that was bare . . .

Okay . . . he blinked again to refocus . . . get it together Aaron. No more thinking about what else is bare under the towel.

_Don't_ ogle.

As she sat down on the edge of the bed, Emily couldn't help but notice that Hotch's eyes kept bouncing between her legs and her breasts. And his gaze had that usual Hotch intensity and focus. So much so that she started to feel a little flush from the attention.

He'd never looked at her like that before.

And though she could see that he was trying not to stare, he was clearly having some difficulties finding a place to settle his eyes. And she realized then that just because Hotch had better self-control than most men, it didn't mean that he wasn't still a guy. A guy that was some months divorced from female companionship.

But as far as that went, she was also some months 'divorced' from male companionship too. So she didn't want things to be get weird between them now with her towel clad and him smelling good enough to eat.

And knowing that sometimes it was better to simply acknowledge the elephant . . . often that chased it away . . . as he turned back to lock the door, she called out softly.

"Sorry for the outfit. And before you ask, no," she crossed her legs at the ankle and smoothed down the towel where it was bunching slightly on her lap, "no I don't have a robe. And I don't seem to have a clean nightshirt either. That's what I was looking for when you knocked. But I'm feeling fairly confident that you didn't come over to 'ravish me,' so I'm okay talking in terry cloth if you're okay talking to me IN terry cloth. Though," Emily put her hand up to cover an aborted yawn, "if you _did_ come over to ravish me, fair warning," she said with a sleepy smile. "You're going to be doing all the work."

There, hopefully a little joke would lower some of the tension from the room. It wasn't physical tension, it was sexual. _Definitely_, sexual.

And that was pretty unusual for them.

A faint smile passed over Hotch's lips as he walked over to sit down next to Emily on the bed.

And once again she'd helped to lessen the awkward of a moment simply by pointing out the awkward OF the moment. It was one of her special skills.

One of many.

And now he was feeling a bit less distracted by all the sexual images . . . and naked Emilys . . . that had been bouncing around in his brain. So with a sleepy huff, he followed along her train of thought.

"Well," he dropped down onto the mattress, "I think by definition _ravishing_ is generally activity heavy on the '_ravisher,_' so if that was my plan," his lip quirked up slightly, "I really should have expected that effort would be required, _before_ I came over."

Actually ravishing had NOT been on his mind before he'd knocked on the door, but he couldn't deny that the idea had definitely popped into his head after he'd seen the towel.

And those 'peekaboo' breasts.

Now, fortunately though, those baser sexual instincts were being pushed away. Well, it was mostly fortunate. He obviously didn't want to start 'objectifying' Emily. That would clearly not be good for any aspect of their relationship, working or personal. But he couldn't deny that seeing her standing there in the towel, had been the first time in hours that he hadn't felt like COMPLETE shit.

But now _that_ feeling was coming back again.

Though as he heard Emily's soft chuckle at his response, surprisingly Hotch felt a little of that sadness push away. It had been such a terrible day . . . he bit his lip . . . it was so nice to hear her laugh. When they first walked into that basement, he wasn't sure if she'd ever laugh again.

Him either.

The jury was still out on him. But when Emily turned then to look at him, suddenly all of the other thoughts he'd been having were wiped from his mind. And that's because when she moved, the flap where her towel was wrapped on her leg, fell open.

A large bruise appeared.

It was ugly and dark and purple, and started about an inch above her left knee . . . it ended somewhere up under the fluffy towel.

And for some ridiculous reason, he found himself beginning to reach out . . . he was going to brush the towel back to see where it ended, and how bad it was.

To see if he could do something to make it better.

But then he realized how inappropriate that would be. He had no right to touch her that way. No right to touch her _at all_. And certainly not while she was dressed the way that she was.

He would be taking advantage.

His fist curled back to his side.

"Uh," his eyes snapped back up to Emily's face, "does that hurt?" He asked softly with a gesture towards her leg.

Not that he was quite sure what he could do even if it did, but for some reason he just needed to know.

Emily's eyes dropped down to where Hotch was pointing.

"Yeah, but not too bad," she murmured back, "I think I did that on a rock. The ones you can't see right now are way worse." Then she shook her head, "my hips just did not want to slide through that little space."

Emily' gaze shifted back up, and seeing Hotch watching her intently, her eyes locked onto his for a moment. Then she reached out. The tip of her index finger ghosted along the faint swelling visible on his cheekbone.

It had been worrying her all night.

"How's this?" she asked with undisguised concern, "you're sure you don't have any blurriness on that side, right?"

Over the six hours they'd been at the scene, there had been multiple ambulances called to the house. One of them specifically had shown up just to check them. The EMTs had looked them both over, and once it was confirmed nothing was broken . . . and neither of them had smacked their heads on anything . . . they'd cleaned out their cuts and put a few butterflies on the larger of their lacerations.

Though Emily could see that Hotch . . . like she . . . had obviously taken off the bandages when he'd showered. But regardless of the EMTs assessment, she still didn't like the looks of this particular cut.

It was too close to his eye.

Hotch's expression softened at the worry in Emily's tone.

"I think it's okay," he whispered as her hand fell away. "But thanks." Then he cleared his throat. "I um," he scrubbed his hands down his thighs, "I didn't come over to talk about me though. I wanted to know if you'd like me to get you some food. I was going to break into the kitchen, see what they had in the fridge. You figure a place like this must have some decent leftovers. I'll just give Lorelai some money tomorrow."

"Oh yeah," Emily's expression brightened slightly and a nod came with it, "please. Anything you can find would be good. All I have are the leftover petit fours from last night, but there were only a couple left." Then her brow rose, and she pointed over to the dresser.

"If you want one, they're up there."

Hotch's eyes followed along where Emily was pointing, but he was already shaking his head.

"No, that's okay, thanks. I can wait a bit longer."

Then his gaze shifted back to Emily herself. His eyes were roaming again, though that time it was more clinical, and less lustful. Now he was taking in the scratches and black and blues she'd picked up from Darren's attack.

He was just worried about her.

Either way though, when he saw the blush forming on her cheeks . . . and realized he was staring again . . . he murmured a "sorry," and pulled his eyes away and down to the carpet.

That's when he finally asked the question.

"How are you feeling?"

That was why he'd come over to see her before he went downstairs. He could have just brought her some food, but he'd felt this pull to go check on her first. Because like she'd said earlier, this world, these cases, they were poison. So maybe they should start trying to spit some of it out.

Just a little bit at time

Emily bit her lip, her eyes locked onto Hotch's fingers. They were resting on his thigh. She wanted to take them into her lap again. But somehow . . . with her wearing the towel . . . it seemed like that would be too sexual. After all she was basically naked. And she'd be naked with his hand in her lap.

Yeah . . . she caught a shallow breath . . . that would definitely take them down a new path.

So she shifted her gaze down to the carpet.

"Um," she murmured back, with a faint shrug, "I don't know. I'm a little better I guess. Full disclosure, I cried in the shower. And I tripped and fell before that, and then I sat on the floor feeling sorry for myself, and hating my life, for more time than I'm proud to admit. But," she cleared her throat, "I keep trying to remind myself, that at least we got the UNSUBs, and saved that little boy. And that's the best we're going to get here, so I need to accept that. So, um," her fingers twisted in the edge of the towel, "yeah, I guess I'm um, doing okay.

She wasn't really. But they always pretended that they were. It was how they coped. And Hotch was the king of emotional repression, so Emily was somewhat surprised when he lifted his head, and she looked over to see that his eyes were red.

Then he reached out to cup her cheek.

"I'm sorry that this was such a terrible case," he whispered, "and I'm sorry that you had the heavier load almost every step of the way. I've gone over it in my mind, and I wish so much that I could have helped more. But I'm not quite sure what I could have done differently, but it feels like there should have been something. I let you down," his voice caught, "and I hope you can forgive me for that."

This had been one of the things he'd wanted to tell her in the car, and in the hall. That he knew that he'd failed her miserably.

And how terrible he felt about that.

Hearing Hotch's voice crack, tears immediately flooded Emily's eyes . . . and yet again he had found a way to slice right through whatever defenses she had put up to protect herself.

All defenses were always useless with him.

And feeling one of those new tears spill over and run down her cheek, she started to reach up to wipe her face. But Hotch caught the bit of moisture with his thumb.

She closed her eyes.

"You didn't let me down, Hotch," she whispered, "you never have. So let that go. Just push those thoughts from your mind. I don't want you feeling badly about me. This case is bad enough by itself. You don't need to take on anymore crap."

Emily was quiet for a second, her hands twisting, before she came back again.

"Sometimes," her voice started to thicken, "I think it would be so much easier if you really were the hard ass that everybody thinks you are." She opened her eyes to give him a sad smile.

"Then you wouldn't make me cry."

Seeing Hotch's expression twist, and knowing he was about to apologize, Emily shook her head.

"Don't you dare say you're sorry." She said with a pat to his knee, "Just because it would be easier if you weren't a closet sweetie, it doesn't mean that it would be better. I like you just the way you are."

Hotch bit his lip.

"I like you just the way you are too," he whispered back, while trying to will the moisture pooling in his eyes.

Emily sniffled again as another tear ran down her cheek.

"I thought I drove you crazy?"

Hotch's brow wrinkled as he shook his head seriously.

"No. No, that's not true. Not really. You're just you, and you," he swallowed, "well, sometimes you do throw a curve into my day. But I've come to depend on that. You make me laugh." His watery gaze shifted back down to the floor. His voice dropped lower.

"Nobody else makes me laugh."

Realizing how hard it was for Hotch to share that with her, his real feelings, Emily wiped another tear off her cheek. Then she tipped her head over to rest it on his shoulder. And in the quiet of the room, she blinked away her tears and listened to his breathing. How it seemed to be in sync with hers.

She wondered if their hearts were beating the same rhythm too.

"Would you rub my shoulder for me?" She asked softly.

"Sorry?"

Hearing the faint bit of concern mixed with confusion coming from the man at her side . . . it was understandable given the circumstances . . . Emily reached over, slowly running her fingertips along Hotch's forearm.

The thick hairs tickled her skin.

"I pulled the muscle earlier," she continued as her fingers moved on to stroke along the back of his hand, "and then when I fell down, I aggravated it even more. The muscle's all hard, like a knot."

Hotch closed his eyes.

Though he was trying to listen to the words Emily was saying, mostly he was focusing all of his self-control on keeping his breath steady. It certainly wasn't the first time that she had touched him . . . she touched him fairly often . . . and all she was really doing was touching his arm. But the woman was doing something to him tonight. And he wasn't quite sure if it was her, or the towel, or her IN the towel, or if it was just all in his mind.

But if it was _her_, and her ALONE . . . and he was thinking that it might be . . . he wasn't quite sure whether she was doing it on purpose. But either way, whatever was happening, he knew that he was just along for the ride.

A dandelion in the breeze.

So once he was sure that his breath was under control . . . he didn't want Emily to know that her touch was having this bizarre effect on him . . . Hotch's downward gaze shifted between her fingers stroking his wrist, almost like she was taking his pulse, and the amount of thigh now exposed by her towel wrap.

It was about a quarter of an inch more than when he'd walked in the door.

That towel . . . though certainly not his only distraction at the moment . . . was going to get them both into big trouble. Figuratively and literally. It could so easily . . . in the most innocent of scenarios . . . fall off.

He bit his lip.

"We need to find you some clothes first."

Even if she was dressed, a shoulder rub was probably a bad idea. Hell, who was he kidding, given the strange attraction he was feeling at the moment, it was a TERRIBLE idea. But he'd always found it difficult to say no to Emily.

More and more recently.

And trying to say no to her after the day they'd had, when she was naked in a too short towel touching his wrist the way she was, well, he didn't stand a chance of holding his ground. Basically anything that she asked him right now, he'd probably say yes.

He just didn't want her to know that.

Emily's fingers pressed into Hotch's wrist, counting the beats, right before she leaned up to kiss his cheek.

"Thanks," she whispered.

Even as she saw the slight bit of pink hue spreading on his skin, she was twisting around to look over at her duffel bag.

"I really don't think I have any clothes though," she added in the same tone, "I've just got one clean pair of dress pants and nice shirt left. You know we were only supposed to be gone a day, and I didn't get a chance to do full repack after San Antonio." She looked back over at him.

"Do you have a t-shirt that I could borrow for bed?"

It wasn't the first time that she'd borrowed a shirt from one of the guys . . . a couple of months ago she'd slept in one of Reid's after he'd dropped a cup of coffee on her ready bag and soaked half her clothes . . . but this was the first time that she'd taken anything from Hotch.

It didn't feel weird to ask though.

If he was still married it would have . . . to Emily's mind wives/girlfriends held a partial say as to whether or not a man's t-shirts were allowed to adorn another woman's breasts. . . but given that Hotch was very much divorced now, his clothes were his alone to disburse as he saw fit.

At least that's how Emily saw it.

Either way, as Hotch nodded a slow affirmation to her inquiry, she knew that if the Sheriff asked them to stay beyond tomorrow, she was going to have to ask Lorelai where she could do a load of laundry tomorrow night. Otherwise she was going to be washing her underwear out in the sink.

And the thought of doing that was so sad and pathetic, it actually made her want to start crying again.

As Hotch moved to stand up, Emily's fingers fell off his wrist and back to her lap.

"I'll be right back."

* * *

_A/N 2: As you can see now, there are shifts in their relationship in this story, that were never mentioned in Girl'proper. And hopefully the consensus will be that this was a more 'enjoyable' chapter, than the last one. Though anything really would have been :)_

_You'll also notice some metaphors, threads being woven in here, that I've used in other tales. I did that on purpose, I wasn't just being lazy :) Obviously they're all "my" interpretation of them, so how they see themselves from, again, my viewpoint, that travels from one world to the next. Just mentioning it in case anybody was like 'wait, didn't she use that metaphor before somewhere?' The answer is yes, I did :)_

_More for the weekend. _


	12. A Spark To Pierce The Dark

**Author's Note:** And finally, we're done! Another story wrapped. Yay!

It's also another super long chapter, and I do hate to give away plot points, but I also hate for folks to be caught 'unawares' if something was TOTALLY unexpected. Because as a reader who has more than once said 'whoa WTF?!' at something somebody wrote, I know how annoying and/or upsetting, that can be. So just be advised, again there are some paragraphs here that, depending on your personal preferences, some of you might wish to skim rather than read in detail. You'll certainly know them when you get to them :) And beyond that all I'll say is I hope generally everybody's happy with the wrap up.

Also, FYI, I changed the story rating to M for (what I consider) "Adult Content." Partly for the stuff covered in the earlier, serial killer house, chapter, and partly for what's in here. I think by comparison to my other M stories, this one is on the milder end, but still, I like people to have a fighting chance :) And if I think I've now molded a world that might make some people uncomfortable, and looking back on it now as a whole, I think that's potentially the case here, then they should know what they're getting into before they get into it. As you all do now!

As always thanks for all the reviews and PMs all along. Oh, and side note, the CM Profiler awards close this week. So if you're reading The Hours (which I promise to update this millennium), and you like it, or just like me :) I'm up for a couple of nominations. And I'd be very appreciative of your support :)

So, to the story! Picking up directly from the last scene.

* * *

**A Spark. To Pierce The Dark.**

Emily waited until Hotch had left the room, and the door had clicked shut, before she too stood up. Then she quickly moved over to dig into the pile of crap she'd dumped out onto the carpet.

Now she just had to find some clean underwear.

Ah, yes, she thought as she dug out a pair of grey bikinis, and underneath that . . . she snagged another piece of fabric on her finger . . . a pair of black ones.

Two pairs left.

A pair for tonight, and then clean ones for tomorrow too. Good. And most likely, if Hotch hadn't come over, she would have just slept in her underwear alone. But he was right, obviously him giving her a massage of ANY kind while she was wearing nothing but a towel, was just not a BAD idea.

And besides . . . she started to step into the grey bikinis . . . having a t-shirt would be warmer for bed.

Emily had just finished slipping her underwear on, when Hotch gave a perfunctory knock and stepped back through the door. She was tightening her towel again as he turned the deadbolt.

"Here," he said a moment later with his eyes up on her face and his hand out, "totally clean." Then he added while handing the shirt over.

"And I looked for some pajama pants, but my bag's a little light too."

Though he did have an extra pair of boxers that he could have given her, Hotch had picked them up, and then put them back down again. It just seemed too intimate an item to gift.

The shirt would be long enough to cover.

"Thanks," Emily shook out the shirt with a faint crinkling of her eyes, "just turn your head for a second."

When Hotch did as she asked . . . actually turning around completely . . . Emily slipped the black HRT T-shirt over her head. And once she was sure that it was at least as long as the towel she was wearing . . . actually an inch longer . . . she undid the flap, and let the yellow terrycloth fall to the floor.

It fell to the ground with a little 'woomph' of displaced air.

"Please tell me that you're not completely naked." Hotch murmured in a low tone.

A tone deep enough to cause a little flutter in Emily's stomach.

"No," she responded quietly, "the t-shirt was on before the towel was off." Then she tugged down on the jersey material, "it's safe to look."

Hotch turned back to see Emily swimming in his old Hostage Rescue T-shirt. And his emotional reaction to that image was completely different than that of when he'd first seen her in the towel. The fabric landed a little further down her thighs, and there was no longer any visible cleavage to sexualize the moment. So with the oversized shirt hanging off of her, and Emily's pretty face scrubbed clean of her usual makeup, she just looked heart achingly young.

Probably the face of the girl who had joined the Bureau so many years ago.

Hotch realized then, as he looked at this woman who brought out so many conflicted feelings in him, that this was also the first time in twenty years that he'd let _any_ woman besides his wife, wear an article of his clothing. And that was a surprisingly bittersweet realization for him.

Because Haley used to wear his t-shirts too. But never this one.

Never his FBI ones.

And then maybe a year or so ago, she stopped stealing all of his T-shirts. Stopped smelling his dress shirts when she picked them up off the bed. Stopped teasing him about the old ones getting ratty cuffs, or the faint crease he secretly liked to press in his jeans. She'd stopped caring about his clothes completely.

She'd wanted nothing to do with them.

And if his brain had been even _half_ as focused on his marriage as it should have been, then he would have seen those signs for what they were.

The beginning of the end.

Trying to shake off his encroaching, almost omnipresent, melancholy about his old life . . . it was always worse in the evenings, and always worse still after a bad case . . . Hotch took a breath and moved over to sit back down on the edge of the mattress. Then he winced slightly at the pressure of his gun pressing into his stomach.

He slipped it out and placed it on the bed.

Then he watched as Emily continuing with her half-hearted attempt to pick up the little mess on the floor. She'd just finished hurriedly repacking her ready bag, and now had moved over to pick up her dirty clothes, placing them into a neat pile by the bathroom door. With her wearing his T-shirt, and both of them technically ready for bed, the whole scene felt very domestic.

It made his chest hurt.

Then she finished her clean up by snagging the two yellow towels from the floor, and bringing them back into the bathroom. When she reemerged a moment later, there was a slightly sheepish smile on her face.

"Sorry to make you wait," she said while walking back over, "I hadn't cared about the mess earlier. But then I started to get kind of embarrassed because I didn't think anybody else would see it. And then you _did_ see it, and I felt like a total slob so I needed to straighten up a little before I just sat there on the floor staring at it."

Hotch's eyes crinkled slightly . . . that was such an Emily thing to worry about. And it helped to break up the melancholy of his earlier thoughts about getting ready for bed with her. Because this was not a domestic scene from his old life. This woman was not his wife.

She was someone else.

"It's okay," he responded with a faint smile, "I don't mind waiting. But so you know, it really wasn't bothering me."

Emily's lip quirked up as she stopped in front of him.

"Thanks, but we both know that I looked like a giant slob."

And then she moved to get down on the floor, right by his feet. With the way the t-shirt rode up when she sat down, her bare legs were just as exposed then as when she was in the towel earlier.

And they seemed to go on forever.

Crap.

Hotch's faint amusement at her neurotic tidiness was pushed away. Now the other, unwelcome, emotions had returned again.

Attraction and desire.

And then there was also simple 'awareness.' He was very _aware_ of her as a woman. And he spent pretty much every moment of his life purposely NOT being aware of her as a woman. All of that was now undone by a pair of fabulously long, smooth and trim, as Dave would call them, 'gams.'

Dave . . . Hotch's eyes rolled at the thought of his old friend . . . yeah, Dave Rossi would probably give his left nut to trade places with him right about then.

_All right, Aaron . . . Hotch scowled slightly to himself . . . thinking about what Dave would be doing in the same situation, is NOT going to help. It's just going to make it worse. You're NOT Dave, and you're not going to take advantage of the situation the way that HE would. Just because there's an attractive female in the vicinity, that's no reason to lose higher brain function. _

Just fucking DEAL with it!

Right . . . Hotch's teeth ground together while his gaze shifted up to the painting on the wall opposite them . . . deal with it.

Emily shimmied herself another inch backwards between Hotch's knees. She was trying to be careful not to move inappropriately close to his 'genital area' but still get close enough to allow him easy access to her shoulders and neck without him actually falling off the bed.

It took a bit of lining up.

But once she'd reached what she felt was the sweet spot between those two points . . . and embarrassingly readjusted her t-shirt from where it had ridden up to expose an obscene amount of bare thigh . . . she tipped her head forward. A moment later she heard a soft sigh, and then Hotch was brushing her hair off her shoulders, and then his strong fingers were pressing down into her sore flesh.

She closed her eyes.

He'd barely done anything, and it already felt a bit better.

And she let him just work a basic shoulder massage for a minute, simply enjoying the slow release of endorphins. But then she realized that he was sticking with just her shoulders, and her real problem spot was a little further south.

So she patted his calf.

"Can you please move your left hand a little? Feel that knot like an inch down?"

Hotch's brow wrinkled slightly as he kept his grip firm and slid his hand along Emily's back, applying equal pressure until he finally felt the hard muscle.

"This one?"

"Yeah," Emily simultaneously nodded and winced as Hotch's fingers pressed down, "that's it. Can you please make that not be there anymore?"

Hotch's lip quirked up faintly.

"I think so, just," he pushed down on her back, "just lean forward a little bit more."

Once Emily was at the right angle, Hotch began gently kneading the tight spot.

"Tell me if it hurts." He murmured.

Though he hadn't done this in some time . . . give a woman a massage . . . he did recall once being quite good at it. So he was pretty sure that he could get the knot out with minimal effort.

And hopefully minimal time.

Because though Hotch had decided (for his mental well-being, and their working relationship) to think of Emily's jersey outfit as simply a 'dress' . . . it was a hell of a lot better than thinking of her wearing _his_ t-shirt while he ran his hands over her body . . . this whole endeavor still had the potential to blow up in his face. Because that 'dress' was three inches too short. And her hair was soft and silky when it brushed against his fingers. And her skin smelled like everything that he had lost.

And everything that he wanted back.

Every day, Hotch lived his life with a razor sharp line in the sand. It separated him from that other world. Him from Emily, who existed only in that other world. And that line was never supposed to be crossed. All of these months he tried so hard to be careful.

To be distant.

But what was he supposed to do if she closed that distance? If she wandered over to his side of the desert, and then dropped down in to his lap? Yeah . . . his teeth sunk into his . . . and that there was the problem.

He had a forbidden girl in his lap and he didn't know what to do.

And then Emily moaned in pleasure.

The timbre was deep and throaty . . . and it sounded he'd hit a spot well below her shoulder blades.

Hotch froze, just his eyes fell shut. Then his hands came off her shoulders and up to his knees. His eyes popped open in time to see Emily's fingers dig into her thighs.

And then there was silence.

After a moment, a moment where Hotch could easily have died a thousand deaths, Emily awkwardly cleared her throat.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, her eyes on the carpet, "I didn't mean to do that. I, uh," she swallowed, "that is I, just uh . . . sorry." Then she turned to look up at him, her cheeks bright pink, her voice still soft and hesitant.

"Do you want to go back to your room now?"

GOD! What was WRONG with her?! She'd just made a perfectly innocuous little bonding situation, into something totally WEIRD and uncomfortable!

_Socially awkward much, Em!?_

Hotch's teeth ground together as his eyes locked onto Emily's. He knew absolutely that he needed to leave. He'd never been more sure of anything in his life. He needed to stand up and walk out that door.

But he didn't go.

Instead he swallowed over the lump in his throat.

"No," he shook his head slowly, "no, I don't want to go. We'll finish. And then I'll go downstairs and get us something to eat. Just like we planned, okay?"

That's when Emily's eyes began to water right in front of him.

"Okay," she whispered back, her voice thick with emotion.

And though she'd agreed with his words, she was clearly so sad as she voiced that agreement . . . like she too understood that she'd made an already awkward night, more difficult still . . . that Hotch couldn't just let it go. It was always impossible to let her suffer alone. So though he needed to maintain his distance, he found himself reaching out to cup her cheek.

Then he gave her a soft smile.

"No more crying," he murmured, "you'll make your eyes swell up." Then he winked and pulled his hand back, while motioning for her to turn her head around again.

Once she had . . . after a faint sniffle, and an even fainter crinkling of her eyes . . . he took a deep breath, and put his hands back down on her shoulders.

And though it was in the outer limits beyond his better judgment . . . pretty much EVERY interaction he'd had with this woman over the last hour had been in the far galaxy outside of his better judgment . . . Hotch started again rubbing her neck again.

From then on, though he knew that Emily was trying to stay quiet, there was the occasional sigh or sharp intake of breath. It was enough to throw his concentration, so while he needed to look down at her to see what he was doing, he tried to tune out the happy little sounds. Instead choosing to focus in on the sounds of the TV.

They were running something in the Arctic.

And when she occasionally dug her fingers into his calf, he let that go too. Because really that was generally more his clue that he had hit a sore spot again.

So he'd work his way through it, moving slowly along her shoulders and neck, and the base of her scalp. Then he went back over the whole area again, just for good measure. And just because he'd already thrown himself headlong into the task, so he'd be damned if he didn't at least do it right.

But it was the point where Hotch found his efforts had moved up to Emily's ears and temples and down along her jaw . . . and realized that was his hands were lingering because there was no barrier preventing him from touching her bare skin . . . that he knew it was passed time that he stopped.

He was about to embarrass himself.

So with a somewhat disgusted eye roll at his own lapse in control . . . just because he'd spent the last nine months completely celibate, that was NO excuse for his behavior . . . he dropped one hand back to the bed, while the other stilled on her shoulder. And he was just about to say, "all done," when there was a knock on the door.

They both jumped.

His fingers immediately dug back into her shoulder, just as hers dug into his leg. Then Emily . . . with her hand still curled around his calf . . . turned to look at him over her shoulder. Their eyes locked.

_Who the hell was knocking after midnight?_

"One second," Emily called out, still looking up at Hotch. He was reaching over to pick up his pistol from the mattress. And he was doing that because neither of them trusted the world outside the locked door.

They probably never would again.

Emily's gun was a little further up on the bed, but she made no move to reach for it. They had no actual reason to think there was a problem. And though it was her room, given that Hotch was the one wearing actual _pants_, it did make more sense that he be the one that answered the door.

Hotch picked up his Sig, and pushed himself up off the bed . . . stepping over Emily's head in the process.

Then with his service weapon behind his back . . . no reason to scare the shit out of anybody needlessly . . . he went over to check the peephole. He let out the breath he was holding.

Lorelai.

Feeling a bit of the tension leave his shoulders, he mouthed the same to Emily while tucking his gun into the back waistband of his pajama pants. Then . . . as Emily moved to get up from the floor . . . he undid the locks. And as Emily went to grab something to cover up with, he opened the door.

"Hello Lorelai," Hotch said with what he hoped passed for a faint . . . genuine . . . smile.

And then for the second night in a row, he blinked in surprise when he noticed the cart that the innkeeper had rolled up behind her. This time it was covered in food, not cocoa and coffee.

And Luke was standing in the hallway behind it.

He and the other man exchanged a silent nod, while Hotch directed his question to Lorelai.

"What is all this?" He asked in surprise.

Lorelai gave Agent Hotchner a soft smile.

"We were watching the eleven o'clock news, and believe it or not we actually saw you guys leaving on the live feed, so um," she made a general overarching gesticulation with her hands. "It being so late, we figured you'd probably be hungry by the time you got back."

It was all that she could think to do for them. Of course it was the absolute LEAST thing that they could do for them, but after watching that story . . . and for the first time TRULY understanding what these nice, seemingly normal, people did for a living . . . Lorelai had been compelled to do something for them.

Just something to say thank you.

Hotch's expression softened.

"Well," he cleared his throat, "that was very nice of you. Thank you." Then he shifted his gaze over to Luke who had his hands jammed into the front pockets of his jeans.

"Both of you," he added with another nod, "thank you very much."

Emily joined him at the door then . . . now wrapped up in the quilt that she'd pulled off the cedar chest.

It made Hotch's stomach flip a little to think that her outfit . . . a simple t-shirt . . . was one that she felt comfortable wearing in front of him, but that she made sure to cover up in front of other people.

_Did that mean something?_

"Wow," Emily shook her head in disbelief as she looked down at the tureen of soup, and the plates of sandwiches and vegetables and cookies all covered in plastic wrap, "this is just way too much guys. But thank you," she looked up, "that was really um," her voice started to thicken, "really, nice."

Seeing that Emily's emotions were about to get the better of her again . . . a kind act was often the unexpected break when you were on the edge of maintain your control . . . Hotch quickly cut in, while shifting incrementally closer to her side.

"It's been a long day," he added softly by way of explanation, all while his hand came up to squeeze Emily's shoulder. And he saw then that Lorelai's eyes had become shiny when she looked back and forth between the two of them.

"Yeah," she nodded, "we can imagine. There were some details on the news. All of the bodies, and the little boy, and that you guys had been attacked, and that one of you had to shoot a . . ."

And then Lorelai trailed off in embarrassment. She'd realized that her nervous rambling had not only been COMPLETELY tactless(!), but had also inadvertently revealed who had done the shooting.

Emily.

She'd seen it in the way that her friend's eyes had dropped to the carpet, and Agent Hotchner moved his hand over to the back of her neck. That's when Lorelai had stopped talking.

When she'd realized she'd just jammed her foot into her mouth_._

And she felt terrible for upsetting Emily . . . and Agent Hotchner too. It was clear from the tightening of his jaw that he wasn't at all pleased with the turn of the conversation.

In the awkward pause that followed, Lorelai was trying desperately to think of a way to apologize for a gaffe that had never been covered in her mother's Emily Post good manners classes. And then she felt Luke's hand fell to her back, and she knew it was time to say something. So she cleared over the lump in her throat.

"I'm sorry," she said softly, "sometimes I ramble when I get nervous. But I didn't mean to be impolitic, or nosy. Really," she shook her head earnestly as both agents looked back up at her, "not at all. We just don't have things like this happen around here. _Nothing_ ever happens around here. Nothing bad, anyway. And, well," her voice started to thicken, "when I heard what happened I was really worried about you guys. And um," her voice cracked, "I'm just really glad that you're both okay."

That truly had been her first thought when the story started spreading around the diner that night. _'God, please let them be all right.'_ Because all anybody knew . . . by word of mouth . . . was that something terrible had happened the next town over. That bodies had been found, and that the two FBI agents had been attacked, and that ambulances had been seen coming and going. For hours that's all they knew.

It was just awful.

Honestly, if Lorelai had had their cell phones, she would definitely have called Emily and Agent Hotchner to make sure that they were okay. And she was so upset waiting for news . . . and Luke was actually genuinely concerned as well . . . that they ended up closing the diner early to go home and watch TV.

Mostly though, the local station kept replaying the sheriff's press conference, which hadn't really done much for Lorelai's nerves. To find out that there were actually SERIAL KILLERS living just a few miles away, it was incomprehensible. It burst their little bubble of perceived safety in this silly little town. And to make it worse, there was little mention specifically of the FBI. Just that they been ambushed . . . and injured . . . when they'd arrived at the property, and that shots had been exchanged and one of the attackers was now in surgery.

Nothing about the agents conditions.

So when Lorelai had actually SEEN her two new friends driving out . . . the television camera had zoomed right in on their windshield and Emily had put her hand up to cover her eyes . . . that's when she'd started crying.

She'd just been so relieved to see they were okay.

But now with her stupid, tactless, flub, they probably just thought that she was there out of morbid curiosity. Like some hick.

Basically she looked like a complete jerk.

Emily's fingers fumbled with the edges of the quilt. Though she was feeling another wave of stress and anxiety thinking about what had happened in the woods, she also knew, intellectually, that Lorelai had meant no harm. She'd just inadvertently stumbled into a nasty briar patch.

It was called her life.

So with Hotch's fingers gently massaging her neck . . . she wasn't sure how she was going to go back to a world where he pushed her away . . . Emily took a breath.

"It's okay," she whispered, her eyes locking onto Lorelai's, "I know that you didn't mean anything. It is what it is," she bit her lip, "I did shoot that man, because he was trying to kill Hotch."

Her gaze shifted over to see Hotch looking down worriedly.

"That cut on his cheek," she continued softly while staring up at him, "he got that when the bullet slammed into the tree in front of him. The next shot would have taken off his head."

"So," she cleared her throat as her eyes snapped back to Lorelai's, "that's that."

Feeling Hotch's hand slide down from her neck, to land on the small of her back, Emily shifted incrementally closer to his side.

Given that these people in front of them were probably making their own inferences about their relationship . . . after all it was after midnight and they were both in her room, dressed for bed . . . Emily didn't think a half an inch in either direction was going to make much difference to their presumptions.

Lorelai blinked away the tears stinging her eyes.

"I don't understand how you guys do this work," she said with a sniff and a shake of her head. "I'm a complete wuss. Hell, I get a knot in my stomach just thinking about having lunch with my mother."

Emily huffed faintly.

"I get a knot in my stomach thinking about lunch with my mother too."

And with that unexpected moment of bonding, the remaining tension was drained from the moment. Emily took a step forward and opened her arms. Lorelai smiled.

"Thank you for caring," Emily whispered as the two embraced.

"Thank you for catching the bad guys," Lorelai murmured back with a tight squeeze.

Emily leaned back with a faint crinkling of her eyes.

"It's a team effort."

Then she stepped back, catching Hotch's fingers as she moved over besides him.

This was her team. Even if on this case they were two instead of six, none of them could do this work alone.

They'd never survive.

Lorelai couldn't help but notice the unexpected hand holding between two people who had claimed just that afternoon to have a completely professional relationship. And looking down at those intertwined fingers, was when Lorelai suddenly took in the bare legs of her new friend.

It wasn't really an outfit most women would wear around somebody who was 'just' her boss.

And though the quilt Emily was wrapped in had mostly covered her top half, when she'd moved to hug her, Lorelai had seen the dark, oversized t-shirt hanging down underneath. It was still visible now. It had the logo of an eagle, and if Lorelai's Latin wasn't completely gone . . . and Rory had made her brush up from time to time . . . the motto beneath it translated as, '_to save lives.'_

'_It must be an FBI unit,'_ she realized abstractly. It made sense.

But then . . . as she stepped aside to allow Luke to move the food cart into the room . . . Lorelai noticed the dimensions of the shirt, and the dimensions of the body wearing it. It was much too big. Her eyes widened slightly.

'_It was Agent Hotchner's shirt.'_

Though she had no proof of course . . . and she sure as hell wasn't going to jam her foot back into her mouth by asking such a question . . . in that moment, Lorelai would have bet the inn that the shirt belonged to him.

And that wasn't just a random guess based on their physical proximity or Emily's overall outfit. There was just something about their body language. The way he was so openly fussing over her, and not caring that they could see him holding her hand, it was clear that there had been some kind of emotional shift since the last time that she'd seen them together. Not that that was any of her business. But she was still pleased to see it.

They made a handsome couple.

And then Luke interrupted Lorelai's musings with a loud, "well, we should be going," as he did a final check of the items that they'd put on the food cart. She snapped back to attention.

"Thank you again Luke," Hotch said with a tip of his head. But Luke just dismissed his gratitude with a faint scowl.

"No problem, man, seriously, like Lorelai said," he reached over and put his arm around his wife's shoulders, "we're just glad you're okay."

And with that . . . and Lorelai's promise to hold their rooms for another day . . . their midnight visitors headed back out into the corridor. And after a final "good night" exchange and wave between Lorelai and Emily, Hotch let go of Emily's hand to go over and push the door shut.

As he turned the deadbolt, Emily murmured from behind him.

"That was really nice of them to bring us all this food."

"It was," he nodded slowly while turning back around, "it was very nice."

Emily's gaze shifted up to meet his . . . and she burst into tears. But then just as quickly, she was turning away and furiously wiping her hands across her face.

"I'm sorry."

The words came out as a muffled sob. Hotch's gut twisted in sympathy as he instinctively reached for her. When he caught her around the waist, he tucked her back against his chest before she could pull away.

"Oh Emily," he murmured against her hair. "It's okay. You don't have to be sorry."

Emily winced and sniffled, tears still running down her face. And though she wanted to run to the bathroom and cry her embarrassing tears, alone. Instead she slumped back, letting Hotch hold her.

His arms were strong and possessive where they wrapped around her body, and she knew those sensations, and the warmth and comfort they engendered, were ones that she could so easily get used to. But she also knew that those were things that she _couldn't_ allow herself to get used to.

This night was an aberration.

God only knew what Hotch she'd be dealing with tomorrow.

So she was just going to enjoy having him this way for as long as he stayed. Like waiting for the carriage to turn back into a pumpkin, her evening prince would turn back into, well, just a regular super hero.

No matter how you cut it . . . she bit her lip . . . Hotch was not an ordinary man.

And after a couple of minutes of him holding her close, and soothing in her ear, she was able to lock the tears down again. These ones had been released by the kind act, and genuine concern, of relative strangers. The reminder after a horrific day, that there really was good in the world. And that you could make a bond with your new friend, at the most unexpected moment. And that was why she did this work.

For people like them.

But finally Emily felt her control return. The ball of tension in her chest had unwound. That's when she sniffled and caught the hand pressed so protectively against her stomach. She squeezed it tight.

"You know you called me Emily," she whispered. "You never call me Emily."

Hotch closed his eyes.

Damn . . . she'd caught that. And though it would have been easy enough to brush it off, to just say that "Prentiss" was the habit, and habits were hard to break, he decided not to do that. Because he had decided to make some changes. And to say that habit was the reason, would have been a lie. And he wasn't going to lie to her anymore.

Not if he could help it.

"I know," his voice was tight, "it's easier to call you Prentiss."

Emily turned around in his arms then, her brow creased in confusion.

"Easier?" She asked, her hand coming up to wipe the remaining tears from her face, "what does that mean?"

He looked down, his mouth curving in a sad smile.

"It means it's easier for me to keep my distance."

It was another truth he never shared. And seeing Emily's eyes widen in surprise at that revelation, Hotch impulsively leaned down to press a kiss to her forehead. But then he felt embarrassed about expressing that burst of affection for her so overtly . . . like he actually had the right to.

Which he did not.

And feeling his face start to get a little flush, he abruptly let Emily go. Then he hurriedly stepped around her, and over to the food cart a few feet away.

"We should eat before it gets cold."

To his own ears, his voice sounded a bit off, but if Emily noticed, she was kind enough not to comment on it. Actually, if anything . . . by the soft touch of her fingers on his back . . . it seemed like she was trying to brush over that awkward pause he'd just created.

"Right," she patted his back, "let's eat."

So they did. With her sitting on the bed, and him on the end chair, they settled in with their small silver serving trays. Emily had found them tucked in on the second shelf of the cart, down with the silverware and napkins.

For their very late dinner, they each had a couple of carrot sticks, a half a grilled cheese sandwich and a small cup of tomato soup. That was all washed down with little cartons of one percent milk that had been stacked on the third shelf of the cart, along with mini-bottles of water and cranberry juice.

It was a full assortment of beverages.

And after they had finished up what would constitute a 'proper' meal, they moved on to dessert. Emily choosing a blonde brownie, and Hotch a chocolate chip cookie. Though he wasn't generally that fond of sweets, there was just something about comfort food . . . especially when it was homemade, and especially after a day like theirs . . . that just made a cookie seem like the thing to do.

Also, it would have been ungrateful to not at least take one.

When they were done eating, Hotch stared down at the still half full plates on the cart. By his estimation, they had enough food left to last them until they went home, but it seemed like it was going to go to waste. But then Emily pointed out the little refrigerator that came with the room. It wasn't really a traditional mini-bar . . . it was free and it was just stocked with water . . . but it would be perfect for their leftovers.

With the plastic wrap already provided, they could take them for lunch the next day.

So Hotch got up and rolled the cart over. Then he stacked the plates of grilled cheese, and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on top of one another in the little fridge. The vegetable plate went on the bottom shelf along with the remaining cartons of milk and juice. The desserts he left out on the nightstand, along with a bottle of water.

Emily might want a cookie later.

After he had finished cleaning up, Hotch looked down at Emily sitting cross-legged on the bed.

She was staring at him.

"Well," he cleared his throat, "I guess I should get going."

Though he didn't want to go back to his own room yet . . . he saw at least an hour or two of staring at the ceiling ahead of him . . . it was quarter to one, and he really couldn't think of any 'legitimate' reason for him to stay in her room any longer.

It was time to go home.

Emily's eyes widened in surprise.

"But," her gaze snapped over to the clock and then back up to Hotch's face. "It's not that late. You could stay, and we could watch TV for a bit."

Seeing Hotch's jaw twitching, Emily knew that he was on the fence. So she decided to do something that she knew would push him over to her side.

She stood up.

He was so close to the bed, that she was right in his space. She tipped her head back to look up at him.

"Please." She whispered while pressing her hand against his chest, "my brain's too wound up to sleep, and I just don't want to be by myself right now. I don't want to start thinking."

What she said was the truth, but there was more to it than that. Truly, she simply didn't want him to go. Because she was becoming very attached to this more open and affectionate side of Hotch, and she thought if she could just keep him with her, then maybe she could keep him from cutting himself off again.

It was worth a try anyway.

Hotch swallowed, and then nodded slowly.

"Okay," he answered, his gaze shifting over Emily's shoulder, "I'll stay for a little while."

Again, he knew that he needed to leave. And again, he was going to stay.

Such a stupid man.

But then he felt Emily lean up to wrap her arms around his neck, her breasts pressing into him as she tugged him down. And suddenly he didn't feel so stupid.

Conflicted . . . his arms slipped around her slim back . . . yes. But stupid, no.

Emily murmured her thanks in Hotch's ear, and then she leaned back, her hands sliding to his shoulders as she gave him a little smile.

"I'm just going to run to the bathroom. You find something for us to watch."

Then she let go of him, and Hotch knew that he needed to let go of her too. So he did. And if his fingers brushed against her hips as she moved back, that was just an accident.

Nothing more.

Then he watched as she crossed around the bed and headed over and into the bathroom.

The door clicked shut.

For a moment Hotch stared at that closed door, biting his lip, thinking thoughts that he shouldn't be thinking. Then he shook his head . . . trying to banish those thoughts back down to the sewer . . . and moved to sit down on the edge of the bed.

His gaze slowly shifted around the room, taking in the little feminine touches . . . the hand cream on the nightstand, the lipstick tube on the dresser.

The black bra strap hanging out the zippered pocket of Emily's ready bag.

And though Hotch knew that he couldn't make a habit of hanging out in Emily's hotel rooms after hours, he couldn't deny that on a base level, it was so nice just to be back in a woman's space again.

Even if it was a temporary space, her room gave off a warmth that was missing from his life.

And he had spent his nights alone for so many months . . . almost a full year now . . . that he missed, not just the obvious, the sex, but simply having that warmth, that human interaction, at the end of his days. Because perhaps if he had someone in his life again, someone to talk to . . . he picked up the remote . . . and make him feel grounded, and accepted, he might not be drowning himself in his work.

He might not be drowning period.

It was an entirely valid point to consider, but not one that he really knew what to do about at that point in time. This evening with Emily was just that, an evening.

Not a full time thing.

Again, he could not hang around in her hotel rooms when they were on the road, let alone have 'sleepovers' . . . even platonic ones . . . at her home. And he absolutely _abhorred _the concept of dating strange women, let alone the idea of actually going out ON a date. So he wasn't quite sure how he was going to meet anyone, let alone someone that he'd want as 'bedtime company,' at any point in the near future.

And with that somewhat depressing thought now weighing on his mind . . . how exactly he was going to move on with his life . . . Hotch bit down a sigh. Then he got up to go turn off the room's overhead light, pausing to click on one of the bedside lamps before he stopped and looked back down at the mattress.

For a moment he stood there stiffly, unsure of where he was supposed to sit while they "watched TV," and more importantly while he considered what exactly the hell they were really doing.

And then the bathroom door opened and Emily came back out again.

She didn't even blink at the light being out. Instead she just walked over and picked up her gun from the bed. After she'd placed it on the nightstand, she put her hand out.

"Yours too."

Without a word, he obeyed her instruction, slipping his gun out from his waistband and placing the grip into her hand.

His gun went down next to hers on the little table. Then she pulled back the blankets, and climbed into bed.

When she saw him still looking down at her . . . now feeling more awkward by the second . . . she patted the mattress.

"Come on," she smiled, "I won't bite."

His brow creased.

"Are you sure this is what you want?" He asked slowly. "You want me to stay?"

Given that he had ZERO confidence in basically every decision that he had made concerning his interactions with Emily that night, he just wanted to make sure that at least SHE knew what the hell they were doing.

It would make him feel a little better.

"Yes," Emily nodded firmly, "I want you to stay here with me. I want you to lie down and watch TV. And if we talk or don't, that's okay. I just want you to stay."

Then something seemed to occur to her, and Hotch saw her brow furrow.

"Is that what you want?" She asked worriedly, "Or am I making you feel uncomfortable?"

He quickly shook his head.

"No, you're not making me feel uncomfortable." He bit back a sigh as he moved to get into bed, "I'm doing that all on my own."

Seeing the sympathetic smile Emily gave him in response to his admission, didn't help Hotch's comfort level at all. It was more, _'woman being sweet and supportive._'

More of what he missed.

So after he'd put his phone and keycard on the night table, he climbed under the covers, making a clear point of sticking entirely to his own side of the bed. After that he fluffed up the pillows and picked up the remote again, flipping along the channels until he found a special on elephant families. He stopped there.

Then he looked over to see Emily give him a nod, so he put the volume up a couple of notches and dropped the remote down on the bed between them.

To his relief, Emily made no move to get any closer to him. That was his worry, that she'd move over to snuggle, and then things would get completely out of hand.

Or more specifically, out of his control.

But fortunately she just fixed her own pillows, and pulled the blankets up to her chest. And once he saw her eyes were fixed on the flat screen, the tension left his shoulders.

Okay . . . he took in a breath . . . he could do this. Just one documentary, and he should be tired enough to go back to his own room, and hopefully sleep for the rest of the night.

That was the plan.

*/*/*/*/*

Emily woke up with a start. Her heart was pounding, and her breath was ragged, and she was absolutely terrified.

But she was also slumped back against something solid, and unyielding. It took a moment of blinking to clear her head before she realized what it was.

Hotch.

His arm was wrapped around her waist, his head was lolling on her shoulder, and his breath was warm on her neck.

And suddenly her terror was gone.

She just felt . . . her eyes started to burn . . . happy. Happy after she'd just woken up so very scared. And though they'd had a terrible day . . . and she'd just had a terrible nightmare to go along with that day . . . Emily still knew that she wasn't supposed to be happy with him. Not this way. She wasn't supposed to let Hotch . . . her boss and her something undefined . . . make her feel like this. Warm, and content.

The tears started to pool.

And safe.

Funny, she never really gave that last one much thought. She was single, she lived alone . . . she usually _slept_ alone . . . and her fear of BEING alone while she slept, had never been very high. At least not until the nightmares came.

And those always came in the wee hours.

But now . . . her eyes sought out the cable clock . . . she was in the wee hours. Well after three am. And she had indeed just been awoken by a nightmare, but it was like it hadn't happened. The images had faded. Her heart was beating normally again.

Hotch's presence had made everything okay.

So instead of slipping out of his embrace and back to her own side of the bed . . . the only wise course of action . . . instead she turned around in his arms to snuggle in closer.

Her nose was pressed into the hollow between his throat and his shoulder. And his arm was still curled around her back.

Though he was completely oblivious of all these things.

But when she moved to slip her own arm up and around Hotch's torso . . . the arm needed to go somewhere and that was as good a place as any . . . she felt him suddenly tense up.

He was awake.

Crap.

"Just stay," she mumbled against his throat while moving to tighten her grasp around his side, "please. It's already really late. And I'm warm and comfortable, and I'll be cold if you leave."

She didn't want to tell him about the nightmare. And what she said was close to the truth.

Sort of.

Hotch's jaw twitched as he stared wide eyed over Emily's shoulder and across the room. Though a moment before he had been sound asleep, now he was very much wide awake. And regardless of Emily's statements on the matter, he knew that he couldn't stay with her. It would be wrong. He didn't get to do things like this.

Be happy that is.

Because as he processed the feel of her pressed against his front, her warm body curved around his, he was very happy. And content. And then his eyes started to sting.

He didn't want to get up.

He wanted to stay.

But because his personal wants and needs had never really been relevant to the life choices that he had made . . . if they were then he'd still be married . . . Hotch blinked away those tears. And then he took a breath. And with that breath he pushed down all of the pain and loneliness and heartache that were rising up.

He began to slip out of Emily's grasp.

He was stopped by the whisper in his ear.

"Please Hotch. Please don't go," her voice caught, "I had a bad dream."

And again, he froze . . . though this time for an entirely different reason. For an entirely new ache in his stomach. It was guilt.

Guilt that even in her sleep, Emily too was now regularly chased by the demons of this job. And guilt that part of him still felt he should leave, even after she'd asked him to stay.

But he was just that fucked up.

His gaze shifted down to the woman curled around him. At some point when they were watching TV, Emily had asked him to turn out the light and open the curtains instead.

It was a full moon.

So now . . . even though there was just the moonlight to see by . . . it was clear that Emily's fingers were curled into his shirt.

Her knuckles were white.

He pushed himself back slightly. Not enough to pull away, just enough to see her face.

Her eyes were open . . . and they were shining.

"What was your dream about?" He whispered.

Emily closed her eyes for a moment.

"The little girl with the streak of white," her teeth sunk into her lip as her eyes slowly opened again.

They locked onto his.

"She was in the basement. Danielle had taken her. She used her basket of tricks on her."

Though the terror of the dream had initially left her, the thought of Hotch leaving was bringing that panic back again. It was only okay because he was there.

And now he was trying to go.

Hotch's jaw clenched, and then he nodded slowly.

"Okay," he murmured back, his gaze shifting over her shoulder, "okay." Then he took a breath, and with that breath he made a decision.

His head dropped back down to the pillow.

His eyes were on the wall again when he finally spoke.

"Do you want me to get you some water?"

His voice was soft . . . sad.

It was a question he used to ask his wife. Though with her he would have ended the question with "sweetheart."

He stopped himself from doing that with Emily.

Emily slowly shook her head, her cheek brushing against the pillow.

"No thank you," she whispered. "But can I um . . ." she cleared her throat, "may I move closer again?"

It was a strange moment. Not so much being there physically with Hotch. Their bond, and their history, there was much intimacy there, enough to remove any awkwardness from a situation like this.

It was more the moment in time that felt odd. Like she was teetering on the edge of something.

And that she was just about to fall.

Hotch's eyes snapped over to Emily's . . . and then his expression softened.

"Sure," he said as he lifted his arm, "of course you can move closer."

He'd already decided not to leave her . . . not after a dream like that. And given their past, and how they'd obviously been sleeping the last few hours, simply holding her again now while they slept was a fairly mild footnote on their personal history.

He would stay for her.

So as Emily shifted over to put her head back on his chest, Hotch dropped his arm back around her shoulders.

"Thanks," she murmured while tucking her body back around his, "I know this is outside your comfort area."

Tears immediately sprang to Hotch's eyes . . . he was thinking back on all those nights curled up with his wife. And all of those nights since she'd been gone.

And how cold that bed was without her.

"Actually Prentiss," he sucked in a slow breath, "that's not quite true." Then he blinked the tears away, "but we're not going to talk about that, okay? Let's just try and go back to sleep."

"Right," Emily nodded as she moved her hand up to rest on Hotch's chest again, "sleep."

And she closed her eyes.

But she didn't fall right back to sleep. Even with Hotch right next her, the images . . . those terrible images . . . they had all come back in her panic. And now they were so bright and painful in her mind. She tried to stay still though, to not fidget.

She wanted Hotch to be able to go back to sleep, even if she couldn't quite yet.

And as she lay there, counting the seconds . . . and then the minutes . . . slowly her breathing began to even out. She still wasn't really falling asleep, it was just a physiological byproduct of the situation.

Her body resting.

But Hotch didn't know the difference. Because after a few more minutes where it must have appeared to him that she had fallen asleep, she felt his free hand come up to cover hers where it was resting on his chest.

He laced his fingers through hers.

And when his thumb began to stroke along her wrist as it had in the car, she had to push down the lump forming in her throat.

He was so much softer and so much gentler, and so much sweeter, than anyone else knew. And even as she was processing the tenderness with which he was stroking her hand, she heard him whisper in the dark.

"These last six months, you know you've been my weak spot. Even when everything in me says that I should say no to you, I don't. You breach my defenses, even when I know better. But I think that I let you do that because you make the effort," his voice caught, "and nobody else does. And I'm so tired of being alone Emily. And I don't know what to do about that . . . I just don't know how to be happy anymore."

For a moment . . . a moment when the tears began to flood Emily's eyes . . . she heard Hotch taking in slow, ragged breaths. And she knew that he was trying not to cry.

Even in the dark . . . even when he thought she was sleeping . . . he'd still see crying with her there as a weakness.

That realization made her want to weep for him.

But then he seemed to get his emotions under control. And he kissed the top of her head, and tucked her just a bit closer . . . and she felt just a bit safer. Not just for his presence . . . but mostly for what he'd said.

'_Even when everything in me says that I should say no to you, I don't.'_

The words both pleased her, and dug a chasm in her heart. Pleased to know that he held her in an esteem that he didn't the others. But it was also devastating to realize that he believed their connection . . . all of those little moments that they'd shared together . . . that was him failing. Being weak.

That he should have been strong and made other choices.

And she wanted to open her eyes and tell him what she thought about that, how terribly sad that made her feel. But she was afraid of embarrassing him. Clearly the words he had spoken, they weren't admissions that he would have EVER made if he had thought for a second that she could hear him.

So for a few moments she made herself remain still in his arms, listening to him breath, and knowing that he was just as wide awake as she was.

But then she thought about him going through life, really BELIEVING such a horrible thing. Picking a life like that. One where he would always be alone, because he didn't know how to share anymore. He saw sharing as something to regret. That's why he didn't how to be happy anymore.

He no longer knew how to bond.

Apparently Haley had hurt him just that badly, so badly that it terrified him to be close to anyone again. But he didn't want to be alone either.

The thought made her chest ache.

And that ache was finally enough for her to open her eyes. She knew that he was still awake . . . it was in his breathing . . . so she levered her hand on his chest, pushing him onto his back, as she pushed herself up to look down at him.

Their gazes caught in the blue glow from the television and the moonlight mixing together.

His eyes were wide with undisguised panic, and though a couple minutes had passed, she knew that he was wondering if she'd heard what he said. And she could have just said yes, that she heard everything, and then given him a piece of her mind.

But she didn't do that.

Instead she stared down at him for a moment, and when his mouth started to open . . . he was going to say something . . . she leaned forward, and she kissed him.

With his lips slightly open, she opened her own mouth to catch him just right. Just so he would know that she had made the move that she had, at the exact moment that she had . . . to make a point.

That the kiss wasn't intended to be innocent.

And after a second of shock on his part . . . he was kissing her back.

It was hard and insistent, but with her still at his side their angle was slightly awkward and they were a little bit sloppy. So without another thought . . . and barely a split second break in contact . . . Emily pushed herself, and her t-shirt, up so she could shift over to straddle his torso.

If they were doing this . . . and she had decided that they were . . . they were sure as hell going to do it right. And with her shirt now bunched up at her waist, his hands immediately came up to slide along her bare thighs.

Her skin began to tingle.

So she leaned in closer. With her mouth exploring his, she had one hand on his pillow to support her weight, and the other hand raking through his hair.

Then his tongue brushed into hers and she moaned.

They were doing something new, and something familiar at the same time. How he gently explored her mouth with his tongue, he was clearly remembering things that she had liked before. And that's because they had taken many of these steps before.

They were becoming old pros.

But other things were new. The way his fingertips slid up to her hips, and then his hands began to slide tentatively up and under her shirt, moving along her sides. And when she made no move to stop him . . . she had no desire to stop him . . . the tentativeness in his actions was gone.

His palms molded the curve of her naked breasts. And then he was stroking and caressing, and she forgot that this was new for them. Because he seemed to know exactly what she liked.

And somehow that seemed important. That they would be good at this, even though they'd never been together like this before.

And as his thumbs began to rub soft circles around her nipples, hardening them to little pebbles, she felt something rise up in her. It was a visceral reaction.

Then she was tearing at his shirt, ripping the fabric as she bit down hard, and into his lip. And when she tasted a hint of copper hit her tongue, his reaction was even more animalistic than hers.

He growled against her mouth.

It was the only sound he made before one of those hands on her breasts dropped down, sliding into the small bit of material where her underwear came up to cover her stomach . . . and then his fingers slipped between her legs.

She gasped.

It wasn't just the surprise, it was the pleasure. Everything was already so sensitive, and wet, that she'd just been waiting for him to touch her.

And that he did.

She let out another deep and throaty moan and then another, and another, now panting and gasping against his mouth as his fingers moved back and forth, in and out, gently caressing and stroking and basically just driving her out of her FUCKING mind!

And then she bucked against him.

FUCK YES!

That was the only thought left right before the pleasure crested to a swirl of colors that filled her mind. And for a moment there was nothing else.

Nothing but him.

Hotch.

Aaron.

To her he was Aaron now. But then slowly, very slowly, her mind began to clear. And she found that she had her face buried in his throat. Feeling him still touching her down below, slowly she worked her lips back up, sucking on his collarbone . . . and his throat . . . his ear lobe.

And then along his jaw.

Just as he was making her begin to gasp again, she could hear him panting her name as she left each new mark on him. And make no mistake, that's what she was doing. She was marking him as _hers_ with each inch of flesh she covered. It didn't matter that she had no direct competition in that moment.

She still wasn't going to share.

And then finally she was back to his mouth again. And again she plundered. Her fingernails scraping along his chest as their tongues tangled for dominance. And she just wanted to keep going and going, to move beyond second base, to give him the signal and just have him slide on into third.

Because third base . . . as evidenced by the continued grinding against his hand . . . was MORE than ready to welcome a new player home!

But the small part of her brain still involved with higher functioning, started debating with herself as his wonderful fingers, and wonderful mouth . . . with lips that she wanted to bronze . . . just kept going on and on with their wonderful activities.

But then her arm finally buckled.

She dropped down on top of him with an, "oomph." And with that new angle, his remaining hand on her breast slid back down to her hips and then along her ass. The hand between her legs stayed working for another minute. It was trapped there, but still moving, now finishing in slow and steady circles.

She was just about to come again.

So she shifted her hips slightly, giving him more freedom. He took it.

His fingers slipped back further . . . and then completely inside her.

Her eyes fell shut and she sucked in a breath that she lost a second later.

OH JESUS!

She began to rock against him, feeling those digits again work their perfect rhythm. Sliding in and out, back and forth. Slow and fast.

All in a new . . . perfect . . . place.

He was . . . her back arched . . . AMAZING at this!

Her second cry was smothered by a kiss. That one was soft and tender.

So tender that it brought tears to her eyes.

And as his hand slipped out of her, and then slowly out of the now soaking wet cotton, she felt his growing erection pressing into her stomach.

At that point she just wanted him inside her.

And she wanted it SO much that she couldn't stop herself from shifting back to grind down on him. And that was even though she wasn't quite at the moment yet where she was ready to take off his pants. But feeling the heat of him moving against her, that alone was making her somewhat ridiculously happy. Perhaps because again, she was marking a piece of him as hers, and hers alone.

When she was ready for him, she could have him.

And though she knew in that moment that she was the one with the power, she was trying not to abuse it. She wasn't making him wait just because she could. She was making him wait because they weren't there yet.

They still needed to talk.

But in the meantime . . . as his hands moved back up to her nipples . . . she moved back to kissing him. She was trying to make everything better with her touch. Gently moving her lips over the bruises on his chest and shoulders. Then the swelling under his eye . . . and finally the cut on his temple.

And then she was back down at his mouth again.

His hands were also moving around her body, but for both of them the kissing had become soft and gentle. On her part that was because she was realizing that she'd missed this.

Him.

She hadn't realized, not even a little, that their previous physical interactions had made such an impression her. Especially that night in the bar. That what they had done . . . and what they had stopped themselves from doing . . . had left this imprint.

This desire.

Because back then, that night, it had been all about him. About making _him_ feel better. Back then he was something that she couldn't have.

And now she could.

And she wanted him more than anything, or anyone, she'd wanted in a very long time. And she knew without a doubt, as soon as she gave him the signal, he would have her stripped naked, on her back and screaming his name until the sun came up.

That's what she wanted. It hadn't been the plan when she'd starting kissing him . . . that was really only intended to be some heavy petting before a serious talk . . . but she could see now that sex would be the ONE thing to really wash this horrendous day away.

For both of them.

But she wanted to make sure that they didn't jump completely off that cliff, without Hotch knowing why she wanted to do it. Or more specifically, why _now_.

Why tonight.

Because she didn't want this to be another weak spot in his history with her . . . another moment he would later catalog on his list of regrets.

It would hurt too much.

Because ultimately, this moment was about something more important than sex. It was about human companionship. That spark of electricity . . . that aching _need_ for another person, that's why she had climbed on top of him. To remind him of what was out there waiting for him.

He just had to try again.

So though she HATED with every fiber in her being that she had to stop kissing him, she knew that the time had come. If she didn't do it now, she was going to mess this whole night up.

So, slowly, she broke away. And that time . . . when she just leaned back and looked down at him . . . Emily could see that Hotch's eyes were wide with both confusion and desire.

They were both trying to catch their breath.

And he looked so handsome . . . and so adorably confused . . . that Emily just wanted to yank his boxers off, and go to town. But she held back.

For the moment.

There were things to say first. So as his hands moved back down to her hips, she slid one of her hands up to cover his heart.

It was pounding away.

She smiled, though tears were beginning to sting her eyes.

"This," she whispered breathlessly, "this moment, is not a mistake, or poor judgment, or the lateness of the hour. This," she reached up to stroke her finger along his cheek, feeling the faint stubble tickling her finger, "is being alive. Being connected. And we need that just as much as the rest of the world," her voice started to thicken, "perhaps even a bit more given this work that we do. And I heard what you said when you thought I was sleeping. So, the next time that you start believing that our history," a tear spilled over and down her cheek, "our _relationship_, that it's riddled with regrets because of these moments that we've shared, moments where you felt you were weak and let me in against what you thought was your better judgment," she sniffled, "please remember this feeling. Remember that you're happy. Remember that I never hurt you, that I never left you," another tear ran down her cheek, "I just kissed you. And you kissed me back," she gave him another watery smile right before her voice cracked, "and it was good."

"Prent . . . Emily . . . I . . ."

Hotch stammered to try and respond, but Emily just put her finger to his lips.

"No," she whispered, "just listen. I'm saying this because you need to hear it. It's better to be with someone. I'm alone because I have lousy taste in men, but I keep trying, because I want to find somebody and be happy. And I know that you've been hurt and that you've kind of lost your way, but," she leaned up to press her forehead against his, their breaths then mingling together, "I want you to find somebody too. I want you to let someone in your life again. I don't want you to be alone," her voice cracked, "it makes me sad. Because you're really great Hotch, you're one of the best men I know. And you deserve so much to be happy," another tear ran down her face, "even if you don't think so."

Seeing that Hotch's eyes were now watering too, Emily lowered herself down to give him a salty kiss. Then she patted his cheek, and moved over to lay her head down on his shoulder.

"So," she continued softly, trying to clear the emotion in her voice, "that's what I wanted to say before we went any further. That no matter what happens next, that I want you to remember this night, and remember our other kisses, and then I want you to remember how much better life is when you're not alone. And that's mostly all I had planned to say when I first kissed you. But," she sniffled and wiped her hand across her cheek, "I guess the stress of the day, we went farther than I thought we would."

Feeling Hotch tense up slightly at that, Emily immediately rubbed her hand across his chest.

"That wasn't to imply I regretted anything we did. Even if wasn't the plan," she kissed his cheek, "it was great. And if you want to keep going now, and I hope you do, I'm on the pill. And," she added softly, "I think our relationship, working and otherwise, will still be just fine tomorrow no matter what. But if you want to stop now, I get it. I don't want us to do anything that will make you uncomfortable later. Because this," she rubbed her cheek on his shoulder, "whatever we are," her voice started to catch again, "it means something too. And it's too important to screw up."

And with that, Emily dropped her head back down to his chest . . . and let him decide.

So much had changed this last year, and even more so over the last six months, that it was almost astounding that they were to a point that they could even have a conversation like this. But whatever their relationship had evolved into, in many ways with Hotch Emily felt like the girl who told the emperor he had no clothes. Because as far as she knew, next to Dave, she really was the only one that would . . . or could . . . speak the God's honest truth to this man. Most people were too scared to even consider speaking plainly with him. But somebody needed to. And somebody needed to look after him.

Because he was doing a lousy job of looking after himself.

Hotch's heart was pounding as his mouth opened . . . and then closed. His eyes were still watery, and he had butterflies in his stomach. He was confused, and aroused, and sad, and happy . . . and he just couldn't get enough blood flowing to his brain to sort any of that out.

And while he was trying to process everything that Emily had just said . . . and what they had done before that . . . Hotch brought his hand up to wipe his mouth.

It was wet.

But as his thumb ran across his lip, he bit down on it for a moment, and he realized then that it tasted of the peppermint that Emily had popped earlier.

And it also tasted of her.

From when he had touched her. And now that taste was on his lips, and on his tongue. All he could taste was her. And now he wanted to taste ALL of her. Peppermint, salty, musky . . . all of it.

FUCK!

His eyes screwed shut for a moment, desperately trying to make a decision that he hadn't REALLY thought that he would have to make that night. Could he have sex with Emily, could they be happy for a little while, and not F up everything else up between them?

Would everything still be okay in the morning?

She said that it would be, and he wanted her to be right. He wanted it more than he'd wanted anything in a long time, but he was afraid of making the wrong choice. When they were just going on and on, touching each other and making out, and not thinking or talking, it was all okay. But now his brain was working again.

And his brain was always thinking too much.

And his attraction for Emily was one of those things that he worked so hard to deny. Which was why he also worked so hard to try to keep her at arm's length. And he probably worked harder with her than anyone else, because she had always refused to _stay_ at arm's length. She was always there, invading his bubble. Always just within reach.

He just had to reach out.

But he never did.

Because this life that was thrust upon him, it was the life of a single man. It was an isolated and lonely world. And Emily was now pushing along those edges, offering a night without isolation.

A night of no strings sex with a beautiful woman.

And here he was trying to decide if he was going to push that away. He bit his lip.

Sometimes he really did think entirely too much.

His gaze shifted back down to Emily's. She was staring at him, her eyes bright in the glow from the quiet television.

"Do you really think," he asked slowly, "that even if we do this, that we'll still be okay?"

Putting all of the rest of it aside, on this single point, he would trust her judgment completely. She'd never been wrong about them before.

Emily smiled.

"Of course we'll be okay," she whispered back, her index finger coming up to trail over his lips, "we're us."

And that was it in a nutshell, they were them. The rules . . . for some inexplicable reason that even she didn't understand . . . had never applied to them.

Thank God for that.

"Right," Hotch's eyes crinkled as she climbed back onto his chest, "we're us."

And his decision was made.

"Okay then," he smirked as his thumbs hooked into the corners of her underwear.

"Let's keep going."

*/*/*/*/

It had been nearly twenty years since Hotch had slept with anyone besides Haley, so the experience of having sex with Emily should have been strange . . . but somehow, it wasn't.

It was definitely new . . . the curves and the moans were most assuredly _not_ his ex-wife's . . . but all of it still seemed familiar somehow. The taste of Emily, the smell of her, the feel of her skin, so soft and smooth, gliding against his body, it was . . . wonderful. And it wasn't just the physical gratification of the act either. It was something else.

Something that he didn't want to lose.

So when it was done, and she kissed him one last time, and gave him one last happy smile, he felt a tug in his gut. A hard enough tug that he found himself leaning in to press his lips to hers again.

Just one more for the road.

Just in case it was the last time.

Then he took a breath . . . and slipped himself off of her, and rolled to the side. For a moment they lay there side by side, panting and staring up at the ceiling. He wanted to say something . . . or do something . . . something to make it all normal and "them."

Because that's what Emily had promised it would be.

But for a moment he was stuck, wondering what he was _allowed_ to do. If he could hold her . . . if he could sleep there.

Or was he just expected to roll out of bed, pick up his pants, and leave?

He didn't want to leave, he wanted to stay more than anything, but he didn't know if that's what SHE wanted. And what SHE wanted was really what was paramount right then.

He wasn't going to do anything to make her uncomfortable.

But Christ . . . he bit his lip . . . how DID these things work?! It had been so long since he'd had a 'random' sexual encounter that he couldn't remember!

And he was so afraid of fucking up!

But when his heart finally stopped racing, he realized that he needed to make a decision. And he was just about to say "screw it" and straight out ASK her if he could sleep there, when Emily picked up his hand.

She kissed it.

Right on the palm.

The action was so sweet, and unexpected, that it brought tears to his eyes. Then she picked up his arm . . . like it was hers to rearrange, though he supposed in that moment it kind of was, she'd made her mark everywhere . . . and slipped herself underneath it. Lastly she hooked her leg around his thigh, put her head on his chest, and snuggled into his side.

She sighed.

It was a happy sound. And as her fingers began to lightly stroke along his abdomen, he tried to blink the moisture out of his eyes.

He could stay.

But even more than that, as he felt her warm body wrapped around him, and her delicate fingers tracing little patterns along his torso, he knew that he wasn't just _allowed_ to stay. She_ wanted_ him to stay.

She wanted him there in her bed.

And for someone who had been abandoned by the one person who had VOWED to stay with him, and love him, until death they did part, that was a big moment.

One he was going to remember.

Because it was as Emily had said earlier . . . that feeling of being connected to someone again, it was there, as a burn in his chest. An ember. It was like coming back to life.

And he didn't want to go cold again.

But he had no idea how to keep this connection alive. He and Emily weren't in love, they weren't even 'dating.' They were just . . . his jaw tightened . . . well, Christ he didn't know what the hell they were. But he knew that they were something.

But that something wasn't romantic.

There wasn't a relationship there. Not now, and it wasn't really something that he was interested in pursuing. It wasn't that he didn't care for her, because he did. Very much so. But it was too soon for him to even consider trying to build a _real_ relationship with anyone.

He was still too f'd up to make it work.

But he just wanted to keep _this, _this spark of life, and this connection with not just another person, but a person that he genuinely cared about.

But because he couldn't think of a solution to that problem . . . certainly not an immediate one . . . he decided to at least alleviate one concern that might have been on Emily's mind.

So he turned to press a kiss to her forehead.

"I'm happy that we did this," he murmured against her skin, "and I won't regret it tomorrow. I promise."

And he could hear the smile in her voice as she whispered back.

"Good," she murmured while letting her fingers dance a bit lower down his abdomen, "because I was just thinking, if it's okay with you, that we should do that again sometime. Maybe," her jaw twisted, "maybe even on a regular basis. What do you think?"

She wasn't generally a proponent of office affairs, especially ones with your boss . . . this was the first time that she'd slept with anyone in any part of her chain of command . . . but Hotch was different. Her relationship with him was_ entirely_ different than any relationship that she had with anyone else.

And that sex was AMAZING!

With all of that innate alpha dominance and control, the man had incredible skills! And even though he was unmistakably, 'in charge' the whole time . . . and she was okay with that . . . he wasn't at all demanding or rough with her.

Quite the opposite really.

He was actually very sweet and gentle, and attentive in ways . . . and in areas . . . where most men showed minimal attention or effort.

And Hotch's effort was NOT at all minimal!

She supposed in retrospect, that it wasn't really surprising to learn that he brought the same drive and focus to sex, as he did everything else that she'd ever seen him do. But having that drive focused SO intently on her body, and her pleasure, was an aphrodisiac in itself. As a lover . . . she bit down on her lip . . . well, she was ranking him right at the top of the list. That mouth and those fingers and his . . . well, she'd come three times before they'd finally climaxed together.

And having that release with _him_ . . . someone else who was chasing away the demons in the dark . . . it had made her feel emotionally, and intimately, connected to him in a way that she'd never felt with anyone else. It was like being brought to a secret place that only they knew about. And that place was warm, and it was safe.

And she wasn't ready to leave it totally behind.

And she was hoping by the silence from the man at her side . . . and the lack of reactionary tension in his body when she'd posed the question . . . that he was genuinely considering her proposal.

Because really, it's not like either of them were active on the social scene. The last few months she'd been running through the usual, sporadic, string of one to three date, schmos. And she was ninety percent sure that Hotch was still too new to singlehood to have even considered asking out a woman for sit down meal. So what would be the harm if they came to some kind of a temporary 'arrangement'?

She really couldn't see a downside.

After all they'd kissed in the past, and made out in the past, and it hadn't screwed up their relationship at all. If anything it had just brought them closer. Brought them to where they were at that moment.

Naked.

But if an arrangement wasn't something that he wanted . . . if this was just a one off to get them through a bad day . . . then tomorrow they would simply go back to how things were yesterday.

And that would be okay too.

Because either way, what happened tonight was good for both of them. And not just physically . . . though they had at least worked off the stress of the day . . . but mostly she was just happy that it would strengthen their bond. Bring them a bit closer.

Maybe even make them regular friends.

But she was still hoping that Hotch would say yes to the sex too.

And as he began tapping his fingers on her hip, she felt it very likely that a "yes" was coming shortly.

But he just needed to get to it himself.

Hotch was quiet as he stared up at the ceiling, thinking about the arrangement that Emily had proposed. How appealing the idea was.

It was like she had read his mind.

Though part of him knew that he should say no on principle because of their chain of command, that would be a bullshit excuse. Because if either of them actually cared about that . . . or felt it was an issue . . . they wouldn't have been lying there naked to start.

Yes, he might have been 'in charge' on duty, but when it came to his personal life, Emily Prentiss had never expressed the slightest bit reticent in saying . . . or doing . . . exactly as she damn well pleased.

Hence an hour ago when she'd climbed on top of him and began to suck on his face.

So balancing those two points out, Hotch knew that they were very much equals in terms of power and control over the other. Which left the other major workplace concern . . . somebody else finding out about them.

Especially a concern in a unit like theirs.

But as he considered that point . . . and realized that without a 'romantic relationship' element, their interactions at work were unlikely to be any different than usual . . . he dismissed that objection as well.

Nobody would know.

So as he began to tap his fingers gently on Emily's hip, he realized that just left 'emotional entanglement.'

That somehow sex would make their relationship complicated.

But he didn't really think that would be a problem either. Of course he wasn't stupid enough to think that having regular sex wouldn't have ANY effect on his feelings for Emily. For one thing it would certainly increase his level of attachment to her.

And perhaps even his affection as well.

But he didn't really think that would be such a bad thing. He'd been isolated for a long time. The only physical human contact he had left with _anyone_, was with his son. He saw him once a week.

If he didn't get called out of town.

And considering the points that Emily had made earlier, Hotch could see now that Jack alone wasn't enough to get him through this darkness. If he didn't find some outlet . . . someone just like Emily . . . he was going to live his life alone. A life that was sucked down in anger and bitterness. And what kind of a father would he be then?

_One just like your own._

The answer was whispered up from Hotch's subconscious. And that realization was enough to cause a stab of pain in his chest. Finally he nodded. It was slow, and it was as much to himself, as to Emily.

"Yeah," he whispered as his fingers slid up her side, "yeah, I think I could get on board with that idea."

And then he tried to soften his next words with a kiss to her temple, and a tug to pull her closer.

"But only if it's just um . . ."

And he trailed off, trying to think of the least crass term for sex without any emotional commitment. As usual, Emily bailed him out.

"Only if it's just sex, and not a relationship," Emily finished Hotch's thought with a gentle pat of his stomach. "I agree."

Then she tipped her head back slightly to give him a little smile.

"Any other ground rules, aside from the obvious of keeping it out of the office?," She paused for a beat, "you don't want me to get a landing strip design for my next bikini wax, right?"

Emily's earlier misery had finally faded. It was impossible to be sad and depressed after a round of really incredible, mind blowing, sex.

Well, okay . . . she corrected . . . it was 'possible' like if it was break up sex, or something. But this wasn't break up, or '_oh fuck, who the hell did I just sleep with'_ sex. It was '_kiss it and make it better'_ sex.

And boy had Hotch ever kissed it and made it better!

Still though, she figured a little joke would help ease any potential awkward pauses in working out the specifics here. Just a reminder that she saw their relationship no differently than she had before. And she could tell from the vibration of laughter in Hotch's chest, that the joke had done the trick.

"No," Hotch gave a soft chuckle, "no, that's okay, thanks," he answered while tangling their fingers together, "I was able to find everything okay without any runway lights installed."

See, now THAT was why he had done this. And that was why he thought that doing it again . . . doing it regularly . . . would probably be okay. Because Emily was Emily, and Emily was unlike ANY other woman that he had ever met.

She made a proposal like this seem normal, when it was anything but.

"Yeah," Emily huffed, "for the new guy in town," she shot him a saucy wink. "You did a good job of finding all the major landmarks."

And he did it with minimal wrong turns. So now she was really anxious to see what he could do now that he had a map of the neighborhood! But it was too late to go again . . . her eyes shot over to the clock on the cable box . . . wasn't it?

Eh . . . her nose wrinkled . . . almost four.

But they had been sleeping for a couple hours before, she reminded herself, and they didn't have to be at the sheriff's office until eight-thirty or nine. The sheriff certainly wouldn't be in any earlier.

Not given that he was working at the crime scene until after midnight.

Which meant that even if they went for round two . . . as she now really, REALLY wanted to, his fingertips were caressing that little spot down low on her hip . . . they'd still probably get like another three hours of sleep. So . . . she did a quick calculation in her head . . . that would be maybe five hours total.

That was more than enough.

Decision made to seduce . . . if necessary . . . her new sex partner into a round two of her screaming his name, Emily sat up. Then she turned look down at Hotch. And she could tell by the little glint in his eye that 'seduction' would not be necessary.

He was ready to go.

So she did what she had earlier . . . though this time she was completely naked . . . moved over to straddle his chest. Hotch's lips twitched.

"If this is going to be your new way of getting my attention," he murmured while pulling her down into a kiss, "I have to say. I'm very much on board with it."

"So I guess you're not too tired?" She asked with a grin while nibbling on his lip.

His answer was to slide his hands up her side, his palms gliding up and along the very outer curve of her breasts.

It tickled.

She broke the kiss with a smirk . . . one that he countered with a flick of her nipples and a saucy wink.

She laughed then, it was a deep and throaty sound, and she realized suddenly . . . she was happy. For the first time all day, perhaps even all week, all of the darkness in her life . . . and there was so much of it . . . was pushed away.

And that was all because of him.

So she shifted herself back from his torso, sliding to areas further south. Areas that were hardening again by the second.

Emily raised herself up, hovering over him for a moment . . . his hands now tight on her hips, helping to hold her up, and guiding her to just the right angle. And when she finally felt that warm, insistent quiver pressing into her, she gave him a tight nod . . . and together, they began to lower her down.

The warmth slowly . . . inch by wonderful inch . . . began to fill her . . . taking her breath in the process.

And then the process was complete.

Her weight no longer being supported by his hands, or her thighs, it was just her body and his, as one. Again.

Her eyes fell shut.

One hand came up to her mouth, and she bit down on her thumb. But still she made herself remain motionless, letting her mind process the feeling of the most intimate connection one person can have with another.

After a day filled with death and sadness . . . she couldn't have felt more alive.

And then she felt Hotch move.

It wasn't a full thrust, just an agonizingly slow, upwards swirl. And the angle was just right, just perfect . . . a shot of pleasure exploded out from that point of contact.

Her breath was gone again.

Her teeth dug into her thumb, just as her eyes popped open. Hotch was staring so intently, and with such open desire, that it brought a flush to her cheeks.

This man could do the strangest things to her.

"What are you thinking?"

His voice was low and deep, and came with another half thrust . . . and another shot of pleasure.

She moaned.

And she realized then . . . as his eyes caught her in that dark nexus . . . that his control over her in that moment was absolute. As interrogation techniques went, for this one she had no defense.

Nor did she want one.

In that moment she wanted nothing but this dance to go on forever. His hands had moved down to rest against her upper thighs, his fingertips were pressing lightly into her skin.

She smiled.

"I'm thinking that if you keep that up, I'd probably give you my ATM code and the combination to my safe."

Hotch's eyes crinkled faintly, but she also saw him shake his head.

"Uh, uh," he whispered with another slow circular thrust, "tell me what you're really thinking."

She smiled again . . . though that time her eyes were burning.

"I was thinking that I wished that we'd done this before." She whispered back, her voice catching, "and I'm thinking that you took a terrible day, and you gave it a happy ending. No pun intended. And I'm thinking that having you inside me," she reached down to cup his jaw, "is making me happier than I've been in a very long time."

Seeing Hotch's expression soften, she brushed her thumb over his lips.

"What are you thinking?"

He smiled.

"That you look gorgeous. And that I feel incredibly grateful that someone as kind and sweet as you, would want to be with someone like me, even for just a little while."

Emily's eyes immediately filled with the tears that had been hovering.

"Are you trying to make me cry?" She asked with a sniffle as she leaned forward to press her lips to his.

Sometimes the man was just ridiculously sweet.

"No," he murmured back, "I just wanted you to know that you've made me very happy too."

And then he deepened the kiss, and she opened her mouth. And as her hands slid along his chest, his hands wrapped around her waist.

Finally she began to move.

And that was their second time . . . or at least how it began.

By Emily's estimation . . . and she presumed Hotch's as well . . . the second time was even better than the first. The second time they both knew exactly what the other liked . . . and what they didn't . . . and overall it was just a smoother ride from the start.

And then she noticed Hotch's oral attention to her breasts . . . which she had been very much enjoying . . . had suddenly waned. Now he was just watching her move, but she couldn't quite read his expression. So she reached out and touched his cheek, though her thrusts remained slow and steady.

There was a momentum building that she didn't want to break.

"What?" She asked with a slightly breathless tip of her head.

But he just shook his head, his expression . . . whatever it was . . . softening to something that she _could_ read. Though it wasn't something she'd ever seen on his face before.

It caused a little flutter in her stomach.

"Nothing."

He answered softly. "Nothing at all." Then he pulled her down, pulled her closer as he shifted slightly for a better angle. And when her eyes fell shut again, his lips and tongue moved back to their earlier activities.

Softly licking and sucking first one already tender nipple . . . and then the other.

He was so good at it, and she _felt_ so good while he was doing it, that she made a mental note to do something special for him the next time she had him naked.

After all . . . she bit back a moan . . . she had a few licking and sucking skills herself.

She'd put them to good use.

Hotch was trying to do something new, to let Emily stay on top until they were done. Given the number of times that he'd had sex in his life, that shouldn't have been such a novel concept. But he'd never let a woman stay on top before. Not all the way to the end. It was just too difficult for him to give up that much control.

Giving up ANY control really, was an effort.

But he also couldn't deny the beauty in watching Emily moving on top of him. Her hair was wild, her skin was glowing, and her bouncing breasts were in the perfect position for him to nibble and caress. And all of that was _almost _reason enough to let her stay where she was. But eventually his alpha dominance overrode even his sexual desires.

Her Cowgirl had him teetering right on the edge.

But when he finally made the move and flipped them over, she just smiled and leaned up to kiss him. Then she whispered against his lips, that she was amazed that he'd held off as long as he had.

And for that . . . for being just the person that he needed, and a little bit more . . . Hotch gave her a soft kiss as he shifted their positions again.

Straight missionary wasn't going to work for his plans right then. So he rearranged her limbs and whispered his request in her ear.

And as expected, with Emily clutching the headboard with both hands, and his thighs straddling hers, he had her panting and gasping again within minutes.

Then her whole body arched, and she began to writhe up and scream his name.

And though that made him ridiculously happy . . . not just to pleasure her, but that she was again (as earlier) calling him Aaron, and not Hotch . . . they were in a hotel.

More specifically, a small . . . quiet . . . inn.

One where everybody had already noticed them.

So when Emily dropped one arm down to muffle her cries with her fist, he didn't ask her to refrain . . . he just moved her arm down to cover her cries with another kiss.

Though at the same time she was moaning and panting and biting into his lip, he did make a note to find another move to make her scream like that again when they got home.

And that time he wanted to hear it loud and clear.

Some time . . . and a two other positions . . . later, with her then sitting and straddling his lap, for the second time that night, Hotch felt that exquisite momentum building to its final peak.

But knowing that his own cry coming was coming with it, he moved to bury his face in Emily's shoulder. Then he wrapped his arms around her sweaty body and came with a hard shudder and a muffled yell.

At that point Emily was again riding down her own wave . . . her sixth of the night, yes, he was counting . . . and as he whispered her name like a prayer and kissed her neck.

She leaned back.

And then she pressed her forehead to his, dug her heel into his back, and locked her muscles down around him. He gasped.

JESUS CHRIST!

With that move, and the corresponding extension of pleasure that she shared with him, Emily gave him a grin that was so wanton and so dirty, that he couldn't help giving her one in return.

It really was a great fuck.

And it made Hotch want to start up all over again. But for the time being, even with her body still humming and vibrating around him, he was too exhausted . . . and physically spent . . . to go a third time right then.

It had been a very long day, and he was not as young as he used to be.

So instead of suggesting that they try something against the wall . . . one of the things that Haley was never game for, too much work she said . . . he just kissed Emily one last time. Slowly sucking on her tongue and again exploring her mouth, until those lovely vibrations had completely passed.

"That was so gooood," she moaned against his mouth, "so fucking good I can't even stand it."

And then she broke the kiss and dropped her head down to his shoulder.

"I'm not going to be able to walk tomorrow." She mumbled.

Hotch grinned as he wrapped her up in his arms, and moved to rub his cheek against hers. Then he whispered back.

"I'll get you one of those golf carts they have at the airport."

Feeling the vibration of her laughter against his chest, Hotch huffed slightly, before closing his eyes with a heavy sigh.

Though he knew that they needed to break apart . . . they were literally still physically joined . . . he wanted to wait just one minute. Not just for the emotional comfort that Emily was giving him, but there was also a more practical concern.

He was fucking exhausted.

And with them both gasping and slick with sweat, they needed a moment to catch their breath and cool down anyway. It was just easier to do that together than apart.

At least that's what he told himself.

But after their breaths had evened out, and he could feel the perspiration on his body begin to dry, Hotch felt Emily suddenly shiver against his body.

"I'm getting cold," she whispered. And his eyes crinkled slightly.

He could hear the pout in her voice.

"Okay," he patted her back, "time for blankets. But let's get up for a minute and I'll change the bed first."

And after that much sexual activity in that short a period of time, the sheet was really too damp to be comfortable to sleep on anyway. The wet spots . . . which were basically all the spots, their moves had run the gamut . . . were just going to be really cold and sticky spots.

And that was just, gross.

So Hotch loosened his hold on Emily's body, and she sat back, kissing him once more while slowly shimmying herself backwards and off his lap.

As he felt the physical separation happen, Hotch also felt a little dig in his chest . . . it was really all over now.

His eyes snapped up to hers, and she gave him a soft smile.

"Still here," she whispered while leaning over to kiss him again. Then she dropped back to her thighs.

He looked at her for a second, the dig being filled then by something else. Something he didn't want to think about. It was too much for one night. So instead, he just shifted around to the edge of the mattress, and dropped his feet to the floor.

For a moment he sat there, rolling his neck and his shoulders . . . the last few hours had been a hell of a workout . . . but then he felt Emily's soft breasts press against his back.

Her arms immediately slipped up and around his chest.

"When we get home," she whispered in his ear, "you can come over twice a week as long as we decide to keep doing this. And if you stay all night, which is fine by me, but totally optional, then you make breakfast in the morning, deal?"

Hotch picked up one of the small hands pressed against his torso. Then he kissed the back of her fingers.

"Deal."

He turned to pull her around and into his lap. And after a quick hug to seal their new, most unusual, arrangement, she dropped her own feet to the carpet, and they stood up.

Seeing Emily give a slight shiver as she wrapped her arms around her body, Hotch felt a familiar wave of affection for this woman who had just shifted into a new role in his life.

Lover.

Curious word . . . he thought as he leaned down to kiss her cheek . . . usually one reserved for women he was actually _in_ love with.

He turned away to begin stripping the bed, though his musings continuing as he worked.

Lover did seem to be the most accurate label. But it was just the first time that he had put that label on _anyone_ new in a very, VERY, long time.

Decades.

But as he thought about it, he realized that it wasn't so unexpected that Emily was the first woman to take that role in his new life.

It seemed destined, almost.

After all, though there had been no great master plan, somehow she had been the one who had been slowly . . . over these last five months . . . guiding him back into the world.

And more specifically, the world without Haley.

Though they had never taken a deliberate step towards 'romantic' involvement . . . and that still wasn't their plan now . . . after twenty years with the same woman, Emily had been the first new hand that he had held. The first new set of slim shoulders that he'd put his arm around when he warmed her up on a cold winter night. That was the night they left their coats in the bar, and went out for Chinese food.

They had a good time.

Then he thought back to their first slow dance . . . their first soft kiss. Their first . . . and previously _only_ . . . wanton make out.

She'd taken him through all of that physically, and so much more emotionally, without entanglement or demands. So it made sense that this final step . . . the last break from his old life . . . would be with her too. Somehow she'd become his guide through this hellish process.

And after tonight he was starting to think that with her help, he might just make it through.

And as she shivered again and said she was going to run to the bathroom, he nodded and stooped down to begin remaking the bed. But then he saw Emily also reach down . . . though she grabbed the soiled bottom sheet that he'd just tossed onto the floor.

His eyebrow rose as she dragged it off to the bathroom with her. And just as he was going to ask what she was doing with it, the door clicked shut. He stared for a second, his brow wrinkled in confusion. Then he shrugged.

Oh well . . . he turned back to his task . . . the question would keep.

Once he'd straightened out the top sheet as the new bottom one . . . it'd been thrown to the floor an hour and a half ago, so it was basically clean . . . he tucked it in around the edges of the mattress. Then he went over to pull two, fresh, lightweight blankets down from the upper shelf of the closet.

He was tossing the pillows back on the bed . . . on top of the new blankets . . . when Emily stepped out of the bathroom.

The sheet was nowhere to be seen.

And as their eyes caught across the small room, she gave him a slightly abashed smile.

"Seeing as we now know personally like all seven staff here, and that we had bagels with three of them this morning in the kitchen, I'd kind of like to not look like a giant skank having what would appear to be a really dirty one night stand with God knows who. Soo," she huffed slightly as she started walking closer, rubbing her arms again, "I rinsed the sheet out and hung it up to dry on the shower stall."

If it was a big no name hotel she wouldn't have given two shits about what people thought of her nocturnal activities. But it was different when you actually KNEW the people changing your bed. She certainly wouldn't want Lorelai to wash her sex sheets. And she would truly be MORTIFIED if that pig Michel had ANY inkling of what she and Hotch had been up to. Because Emily did consider her sex life to be very private, and she had no doubt that Michel would say something crude and disgusting about it.

And then she'd have to kill him.

Hotch tipped his head slightly, thinking about what she'd said. Then he nodded.

"Okay." Then he tipped his head, "if it would make you feel better, I can bring my sheets over and put them on your bed. And I'll put the dirty ones on my bed." His lip quirked up.

"Then I'll be the giant skank."

Emily giggled.

"Thanks," she started walking back over still laughing and rubbing her arms, "but given that we've been pretty much attached at the hip walking around this town, I think I'd still be the presumed _skankee_."

Hotch huffed.

"Well," he turned to pull down the bed covers, "perhaps. But if you change your mind, just let me know and I'll do the switch when we wake up."

Seeing Emily smile right before murmuring a "thanks," Hotch turned to reach up to pull the drapes closed . . . the sun would be shining through them soon enough. Then he took a drink of water from the bottle on the nightstand, before he'd climbed back into the now freshly made bed.

The clean sheet felt much nicer.

After he'd fixed his pillow, Hotch reached over to flip back the blankets on the other side. Emily hopped onto the mattress, and before he could blink, she'd moved over to climb on top of him.

"I want to sleep here."

The words were a murmur as she snuggled up and buried her face in his neck. Then she wrapped her arms around his chest, and shifted to line up all of her other body parts, with his corresponding ones.

Realizing their bare skin now pressed together from nose to toes, Hotch's expression softened as he slipped his arm around her back.

"Good night." He whispered with a kiss to her temple. Then he used his free hand to tuck the blankets up and over them, making sure her shoulders were completely covered.

Hearing Emily's contented sigh when she murmured, "g'night," back, Hotch's eyes crinkled.

That was why she'd climbed on top of him . . . she was cold.

And now she was warm again.

Well . . . he thought as his fingertips stroked along her back . . . regardless of her reasons for the cuddle, it was really nice lying with her this way. The weight of her body, the soft fullness of her breasts on his skin, the warmth from being pressed together from head to toe, it was just . . . nice. Comforting. Not even sexual really.

_Intimate._

The word popped into his head. And he knew then that's what it was, that's what they'd found tonight, not just sexual intimacy, but emotional intimacy as well. It was something that had been long missing from his life . . . it was another thing that Haley had taken with her when she left . . . but unlike his son, it wasn't something that he'd realized was gone, until he got it back.

That was the spark.

And now he was trying to keep that spark alive with a woman that he wasn't in love with. It was going to be difficult. But he realized that he and Emily were bonded in other ways beyond the romantic. They had an affection and respect for one another that was beyond that of mere colleagues.

Or even simple friends.

And, well . . . his fingertips stilled on her back . . . he supposed that there was love there too. Not romantic love, but he did know that if something happened to her . . . if she died . . . that there would be grief.

And it would be severe.

But that was because the team was his family, and families were created . . . and bound . . . by love. Love, affection and loyalty.

Even when they drove each other nuts.

As Hotch lay there, thinking about things that he didn't ordinarily allow himself to think about, a lightning bolt suddenly slammed into him.

He didn't feel lonely.

Not with Emily lying there on top of him. And it felt so strange to have that gap in his chest now filled. Because loneliness and detachment, they had been his constant companions for at least a year. Perhaps . . . if he was honest with himself . . . even closer to two. It was an emptiness that had begun first as small hole, and then as a gaping one.

The gaping came after Haley and Jack had left.

But they'd been there, both of them, when the feeling had first started . . . that feeling that he'd lost his place in his world. It was sometime after Jack was born, and sometime before his wife walked out the door.

Somewhere in there he'd been displaced from his life.

Once they had the baby, his work life and his home life had become completely incongruous. Work was a terrible place, and not one where you could truly live. Not if you wanted to remain sane. But his home life, it had become a mythical place.

A world where he no longer fit in.

Haley and Jack, their world was one of light, and life . . . and happiness. And his was one of death, and torture and misery. His efforts to go back and forth, they had slowly become farce.

Of course he hadn't really realized that at the time.

But with Elle's descent, and Reid's abduction, and then what had happened with Gideon, all of that darkness and despair . . . and yes, insanity . . . it had begun to surround him, destroy him, in a way that it hadn't before.

It had kept him outside his family's little bubble of light.

But now, at this moment . . . he tipped his head down to rest against Emily's . . . he felt like he'd found a place again. Not a permanent place, not even close . . . their arrangement was just that, an arrangement, not a relationship . . . but sometimes it wasn't about permanence. It was just about finding the right person at the right moment. And for him, Emily was his person, in this moment.

And that's because they were compatible in a strange way.

There was darkness in her too.

Not as much, but enough for him to feel that she understood him. He'd first realized it that night in the bar. That night she told him the story about putting that guy's head through the wall. That story had made him so sad, because he'd known then that they had things in common.

Things that he wouldn't _want_ her to have in common with him.

But her background wasn't as bad as his, he was sure of that. Not that he actually _knew _for sure what had happened to her, but he did know that there was light in her soul. And sweetness. She was capable of laughter and joy and openness, in ways that he was not.

In ways that he envied.

But perhaps if they were going to spend time together anyway, he might try to learn from her example. To try to find a balance to his world again.

To just be happy.

Hell . . . he blinked the tears from his eyes . . . it was worth a shot. Half of his misery was his work, and half of it was simply being alone. And if this thing with Emily . . . for however long it lasted . . . could at least help to push away that emptiness, (as it was now), then maybe that would be a way to start dealing with all the rest of it again. He bit his lip.

Maybe.

For a moment he stared up at the ceiling . . . gauging how far the shadows had moved in the last forty plus minutes. Enough to know that it would be light soon.

Which meant that he should go to sleep.

But still he stared at those shadows for a minute longer.

It was just so much to process. All of this time he'd been physically alone, celibate coming up on ten months . . . and now he had a gorgeous woman lying naked on top of him. They'd had sex twice that night, and by the guidelines of the agreement that Emily had proposed, basically they could have sex whenever they had a free evening.

It was surreal.

And it was a gift.

Perhaps it was his reward for staying faithful after the point where his marriage was a technicality only. Or perhaps it was the universe's way of telling him that it hadn't completely forsaken him. That someday he might actually get back to a happy life again. His eyes crinkled as he pressed a kiss to Emily's temple.

He'd like to think it was a little bit of both.

* * *

_A/N 2: Long one! Basically just explaining how I came to decide on this sequence of events. Skip if you like :)_

_So you see now why this didn't fit into Girl proper! But as the scene was moving along with them in her room, it just kind of became what it was. And that was because Hotch was so lonely at this point (and in this story), and between that, and how their bond had evolved to that point, I could see him agreeing to have sex. And remember this isn't H/P at the same life point when they considered having sex back in the bathroom and then decided not to. For one thing, they now have THAT bonding experience under their belts, plus as she helped him through the divorce. And most importantly, Hotch is now months divorced, but they're also months from their summer bonding where their relationship shifted (for that time) to just a close friendship. _

_So this here is kind of that sweet spot right in between, a place where their relationship could have shifted to something more physical without it being weird for them. And again that's just because they are Girl them where they choose to not let things be weird. And also they are at a point where Emily has always been the one to reassure Hotch when they have any kind of physical, or emotional, exchange, so in that way, he trusts her judgment more than his own._

_It was a little bit of a challenge writing a sex scene that had enough details so you could tell what they were up to, but not so many details that it became full on smut. Because graphic descriptions would have made this a different kind of story and I didn't want to make this a 'boom chicka' story. The sex wasn't about that. It was supposed to be more finding an emotional connection with two people that aren't actually in love, but have discovered an emotional compatibility that they weren't expecting to find. So you needed to be able to visualize some of it, but I was trying to stick with something between PG-13 and R, which in the U.S. means nobody under 17 without an adult :)_

_I liked writing the very end, post 'coital' thoughts from Hotch because I got to pull in a few threads from other Girl'verse stories, specifically Second Chances (when they have sex there) and also in Everything Happens For a Reason (when he's starting to accept that his marriage is moving to a place he can no longer repair it.) It makes his feelings here not out of the blue, like hey we just decided to shift gears, hey let's do it(!) but grounded in 'girl'canon'for the undertows of what really has been going on during this last year in his life. _

_It's always kind of sad walking away from a story that I've enjoyed writing. You're living in a world and painting the picture of what you see and hear, and hopefully making that world bigger and more 'vibrant' with detail with each chapter that's completed. And then when you're done, if you've done your job correctly, then the world that you saw, is now a world that other people can walk into and see as fully dimensional by itself. And then that world gets to live on. But for me, that world is now closed. _

_That said, I'm intrigued by their relationship as it's ending/beginning here, and it would be interesting (for me, at least) to see how they move forward with this new arrangement. A new way for them to fall in love. _

_And also, it would be nice to do those visits with Lorelai and Rory at some point coming to see them at work. So, never say never. But I am, if you've noticed, TRYING to get some stuff wrapped up with this new approach of picking a story that's been a multi-year post :) and then just enveloping myself in it, until it's done. I've finished two since August! That might not seem like a huge accomplishment to some people, but if you're a 'long time reader' who has been suffering along waiting for me to finish them these last 3 years, I think you folks appreciate what a big deal that is :) _

_Not sure what I'll jump into next. I've truly not worked on anything at all but Aaron & Emily for the last like two months. So I'll probably poke around my drafts, and see what grabs me. I'm not saying I'll stay with just one story at a time, but if I can get a on a roll, I think it's beneficial for everybody if I can stick with it until it's done._

_Thanks for sticking with it everybody! And I hope the sex turn didn't disappoint anybody! Sometimes the muse goes where she goes, and you have to with her :)_


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